Fractured Destiny
by My Name Is Nicole
Summary: Harry's had a bit of a hard time adjusting after the war. He decided that setting buildings on fire was the best way to handle things. Ron is on the case, blind to the terrible truths the investigation will unveil. In the meantime, James and Albus grow up, unaware that the hand of destiny has already chosen them for fates unknown... Dark!Harry
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - Harry Potter and affiliated ideas and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not J.K. Rowling. Hence, they do not belong to me.**

**A/N - This story is rated M for MATURE. It has graphic sequences of violence and disturbing imagery. Not for kiddos.  
**

**This story will alternate between four points of view. It will not be slash. Pairings have yet to be determined.**

**I wasn't feeling satisfied with my other story, and so decided to start a new one, but I'll likely update the other story eventually. **

**Enjoy!**

**CHAPTER 1**

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_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

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**August 13th, 2017**

Harry Potter just wanted to _burn._

_Burn them all!_

"_Confringo! Avada Kedavra! Reducto! Inflamara! Sectumsempra!"_

Bodies fell all around him, their faces contorted in fear. Nobody could have prepared for anything like this, and even as the security guards began shooting back spells, it was clear that they were still in shock. Half of their shots went wide, and the other half were blocked by an effortless "_Protego!"_

Harry shot out a few more "_Avada Kedavras!" _that subdued the most obvious threats before disarming the rest of the people in the atrium with an overpowered "_**EXPELLIARMUS!"**_

Dozens of wands flew towards him, and he allowed himself a small smile. Expelliarmus had always been his best spell.

He twirled around and sent a non-verbal _Levicorpus!_ to every person whose heart was still beating. Around fifteen or so screaming, flailing bodies were hoisted unceremoniously into the air.

_Burn them all!_

"_FIENDFYRE!"_

Globules of flame spouted from his wand, a horde of hellish creatures all surging forward for the kill. Fire danced in his eyes, his hair was smoking ominously, and his skin was blackened by soot and ash and sweat.

He was laughing, a hollow empty sound that mirrored the crazed grin on his face.

The rebuilt Fountain of Magical Brethren melted instantly into a pool of bubbling lava. The simpering smiles and adoring gazes were gone, devoured, consumed in mere seconds. All that was left were their disgusting, gurgling innards; the truth of their nature laid bare. With a lazy flick of his wand he sent the fire spiraling around the room, careening out of control. He felt it _tug _and _pull, _begging to be released. With an insane cackle, he granted its wish and let it free.

The demonic creatures _roared, _and the hanging bodies _screamed._

He allowed himself a few seconds to stare at what he had destroyed, or rather, at what he had created. The Ministry atrium was gone, but in its place was something monstrous, something beautiful.

When tendrils of flame began to nip painfully at his exposed arms, he realized it was time to go.

After one last glance, he pulled his eyes away from his very best work and span around.

A sharp _**CRACK! **_filled the atrium, but so loud were the shrieks and cries of the monsters, had there been anyone alive left in the room, they certainly wouldn't have heard it.

Harry Potter apparated away as the Ministry of Magic crumbled to the ground_._

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_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

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**On Wednesday, August 13****th****, 2017, the Ministry of Magic was attacked. The atrium was utterly destroyed and casualties number in the dozens. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement refused to release any details, but this event marks the most brutal and catastrophic terrorist attack on British soil since the downfall of You-Know-Who. The nation is in mourning over the senseless loss of lives, and the Wizengamot has called a special session to address the attack.**

**Minister Shacklebolt refused to comment on whether this attack was somehow linked to the numerous other murders and arsons that have been plaguing magical Britain for the past few years. His only statement was that "The Ministry is doing everything we can to catch those responsible for this crime. If anybody has any leads, please contact Ronald Weasley in the Auror Department. Thank you."**

**The lack of knowledge has sent the public into chaos. Many of the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley have started boarding up their windows, and letters have been flooding the Ministry in droves. **

**We here at the Daily Prophet urge the readers to continue about their daily lives and to trust in the capabilities of law enforcement. As a nation, we were able to overcome the threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his reign of terror. The Ministry building might be in ruins, but their resolve is greater than ever, and together, we can weather this storm. **

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_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

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**August 14th, 2017**

"We need to notify the Prime Minister, have him use the muggle media to spin this into something believable."

"Notify? The fire was a hundred feet high! Half of London saw it, and the other half saw the smoke!"

"What about the Obliviators?"

"The Obliviators? Really Malfoy, do you _honestly _think we have the manpower to Obliviate all of London?"

"Don't talk down to me Nott, we have to do something! The muggles might get suspicious!"

"Damn the Statute of Secrecy, the Ministry is in ruins! What are we going to do about _that!?"_

"Gentlemen!" boomed a voice from the middle of the room, cutting through the cacophony of arguments that filled the Wizengamot. Malfoy and Nott were by no means unique in their distress, as nobody truly knew how to respond to a threat of this magnitude.

An elderly bearded man stood on the raised dais reserved for the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, his watery blue eyes crackling with electric intensity. Aberforth Dumbledore, once scorned and mocked as the wizened barkeep of the Hog's Head, had accelerated remarkably fast through the ranks once he decided to pursue a career in politics. Undoubtedly, it had something to do with his name, Dumbledore, which held a sacrosanct respect in the post-Voldemort era. But any witch or wizard who met him could attest that it was more than his name that instilled instant respect. He possessed a quiet, rumbling power that could be sensed stirring just below the surface.

It was this power, now released, that brought the Wizengamot to an immediate silence.

"I'm sure there are many pressing matters to discuss, but let us first address the most important issue. We found no bodies, but there are twenty-six people missing who were supposed to be at the Ministry during the time of the attack, five of whom were among our number," he said, indicating towards the five empty seats that lay scattered across the room. "They are presumed dead. Please allow for a moment of silence to remember and honor those who were killed in this tragedy."

And there was silence. A few men and women looked to be holding back tears, and a few more made no attempt to hide them. Many had lost friends and family, and the air of the chamber was heavy with grief.

After a long moment that to some felt like ages, and to others, was not nearly long enough, Aberforth spoke once again. "Now, it seems the most immediate issue is damage control. What is the latest report from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"

Hermione Weasley stood up, clearly uncomfortable being the recipient of so much concentrated attention. "Sir, we sent an ambassador to contact the Prime Minister and explain the situation. The muggles are calling it a 'pyrotechnic fireworks display gone wrong,' which helps explain why some people saw creatures in the fire. The Fiendfyre dissolved most of the wards and protections around the building, exposing it for muggles to see. Thankfully, most of the Ministry is underground, so nobody saw more than the crumbling remains of half of the atrium. Still, our office felt it prudent," she paused, adjusting the robes around her neck nervously, "to destroy the rest of the above-ground building. The Obliviators have been focusing on those who saw the rubble before we manage to destroy it."

"The Auror Office destroyed the Ministry?"

"That's treasonous!"

"Utterly insane!"

"Who gave the order for such a thing?!"

"We'll see you all arrested!"

"Azkaban!"

"Mrs. Weasley, thank you for your office's quick response," interceded Aberforth before the cries for blood could become anymore vehement. "Had it not been for your efforts, we would have a much larger problem on our hands. You managed to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, allowing us to focus on more pressing issues. I'm sure everyone can agree that a half-destroyed building suddenly materializing in the middle of London would be much harder to explain than no building at all."

The hems and haws grew silent, finally appreciating the logic.

Hermione took a deep breath of relief and continued, "As you said, by the time we managed to control the fire, there were no bodies left to be found. It is likely that the heat of the Fiendfyre liquefied them. There are currently twenty-six people assumed dead, and there are fourteen in St. Mungo's being treated for injuries. The Muggle Prime Minister says that _his _law enforcement accounts for _sixty-seven _dead, and over two hundred being treated for injuries and smoke inhalation."

A wave of uncomfortable murmurs swept the chamber. Clearly, not many people had given much thought as to exactly how many _muggles _had been affected by the incident. Even the most bigoted Purebloods looked discomfited at the number.

"That is distressing news," said Aberforth gravely. "Does the Auror Office have anything else to add?"

Hermione sat down, and from across the room, Ronald Weasley stood up. There was a bit of a scandal when he was promoted above several senior aurors to be head of the Auror Office, and many found it highly coincidental that his wife just happened to be the head of the department. Still, their dedication was unquestionable, and their role in the downfall of Voldemort soothed more than a few rumpled feathers. But not all.

If his wife had looked uncomfortable, he looked downright haggard, and it was clear to most of the chamber that he had been doing damage control all day.

"We believe this event to be linked to the other instances of murder and arson that have occurred in the past few years. None of the other events were anywhere near this magnitude, but the signature remains the same – a building burned down by dark magic, with all of the witnesses killed. We've had our best men on the case for some time, but we've yet to make any solid breakthroughs. Some believe this to be a new terrorist group, perhaps a copycat of the Death Eaters -" he broke off as a buzz of angry and fearful muttering filled the air. It had been nineteen years since the fall of Voldemort, and nobody wanted a return of that sort of terror.

"But," Ron continued, his authoritative voice managing to slice through the noise, "it is my personal opinion that this is the work of a single individual. There is a group of anti-Ministry radicals called the Morsmordres that has been stirring lately, but we've been monitoring them for some time. They are small, unorganized, and mostly frequent Knockturn Alley and plan small attacks on muggle houses that they never actually follow through with. There is no domestic group large enough, organized enough, or brutal enough to commit this sort of attack, especially without our agents catching wind of it. Now, we can't rule out the possibility of a foreign attack, but the earlier pattern of small arson attacks and individual murders make it unlikely that this is the work of a foreign terrorist group, since they would have nothing to gain from them."

"So, you believe that this is the work of _one _person? How could one person possibly cause so much destruction?" asked Dumbledore, clearly trying to understand Ron's reasoning.

"The Fiendfyre spell was a favorite during the reign of You-Know-Who because it allowed for relatively unskilled witches and wizards to cause unparalleled amounts of destruction. When released, the Fiendfyre burns and consumes everything in its path until the energy used to create it runs out. The magnitude and duration of the spell used on the Ministry indicates that this was a very skilled witch or wizard. If you want to know the logistics of it, I'll send you a copy of the report, but to put it briefly – the most likely scenario is that a single deranged witch or wizard walked into the Ministry and start firing spells at the hapless workers and visitors. When they started fighting back, the culprit likely released the Fiendfyre spell, causing mass panic and destruction, allowing him or her to apparate away once the wards broke down."

"How could the Ministry have such lax security?"

"Don't look at me, that's _his _department!"

"After You-Know-Who, we should know better!"

"We needed normalcy, not militancy!"

"Maybe if there were fewer regulations and red tape to jump through!"

"Enough!" shouted Dumbledore, allowing his frazzled nerves to get the better of him. His wrinkles were stretched tight on his face, and his posture was one of a man burdened by the weight of the world.

The chamber grew quiet once more, but this time, it was an ominous silence. If _Dumbledore _was worried, things must be very bad indeed.

"Mr. Weasley, is there anything you can tell us? Any leads you might have as to who did this? Any ideas as to what they might do next?"

Ron Weasley looked around, and saw that every gaze was riveted on him. This was the crux of the matter; this was what really had them all afraid. They wanted to know who it was, and they wanted to know if they would strike again.

Ron cleared his throat, and answered, "The nature of the dark magic makes identifying the magical signature impossible. There is one lead, but we're not sure if it'll come to anything. An injured woman was screaming at the top of her lungs about how she saw 'The Demon.' She quickly passed out from pain and blood loss and is currently being treated at St. Mungo's for third-degree burns and severe nerve damage. It's entirely possible that she was in a state of shock over the Fiendfyre creatures, but so far, it's the best lead we have.

"As to whether the culprit will strike again… The pattern seems fairly predictable. When the attacks first started four years ago, they were once every six months, not nearly large enough or frequent enough to cause alarm. Then, they became progressively more frequent, until they were every four months, and then every two months, then once a month. The last attack before this one was four weeks ago. It's safe to say that if my theory is correct, and if we don't manage to catch the culprit in time, we can expect another attack in the next two to three weeks."

True chaos exploded in the Wizengamot, and even Dumbledore's demands for "Quiet!" went unanswered.

Ron collapsed back down onto his chair, utterly exhausted. He had been containing the fire most of the morning, destroying what remained of the atrium for the rest of it, and then proceeded to mass-Obliviate any muggles who saw anything they shouldn't have. It had been a long day.

When the pandemonium finally started to subside as people realized that two to three weeks was a long time away, and did not necessitate immediate panic, Ron looked across the room and met the concerned gaze of his wife.

The two of them had been each other's anchor through the good times and the bad, and neither of them could hide anything from the other for any significant period of time. They simply knew each other too well, and loved each other too much. He sent her a tired smile, which she returned, along with a look that clearly communicated 'We'll talk later.'

"Ladies and Gentleman, ENOUGH!" called out Dumbledore, finally silencing the room. Everyone turned from their conversations to focus their gazes back on the Chief Warlock.

"Now that we know the situation, we need to decide on the best course of action," he said authoritatively. The people who had been in a mindless panic minutes earlier felt their backs straighten and their shoulders square. They were here to _do _something, and it was their duty as the Wizengamot to restore order.

"We need to contact our allies, ensure that it was not a foreign attack," immediately opined Susan Bones, the head of the Department of International Cooperation, and one of the few who had stayed calm the entire time. "Then see if any nations would be willing to offer support in case we have budding Dark Lord on our hands." Her suggestion was met with a number of approving nods.

"We should ask the centaurs what omens they see in the sky," trilled the airy voice of Luna Scamander, head of the Centaur Liaison Office and noted naturalist with her husband Rolf Scamander. Nobody deigned to respond.

"We have to double-down security, bring old hit wizards and aurors out of retirement and ask for volunteers," explained Ernie Macmillan, who had long ago lost all of his pompous air and was now the no-nonsense captain of the Hit Wizards. "The more people we have guarding important strategic locations like Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, the safer the public will feel and the more prepared we'll be for any sort of attack."

"I agree with Mr. Macmillan," said Bill Weasley, who was now the chief ward-breaker for Gringotts as well as the head of the Goblin Liaison Office. The Weasley family had experienced an unprecedented surge in prestige and popularity and had been welcomed back into the elite circles with open arms. "I think we should also establish stronger wards around important buildings and locations. We have grown lax since the defeat of You-Know-Who, and there are entire towns and villages that are completely unprotected."

"Aye, and we definitely need to start rebuilding the Ministry immediately," said Cho Chang, who had inherited her late father's Wizengamot seat as well as his trade empire, which coincidentally had a large stake in the wizarding construction market. "Right now it makes us look weak and defenseless, and is demoralizing the people. By reconstructing, we'd be showing that we're stronger than this terrorist attack, and that our spirit remains unbroken!"

Despite the fact that many people knew of her very personal interest in the reconstruction of the Ministry, her statement was met by a round of thunderous applause.

"Well said Ms. Chang," praised Dumbledore, himself clapping politely in her direction. "Shall we put the propositions to a vote?"

The old days of bickering and partisanship in the Wizengamot had not waned in the era after Voldemort. New policies had been ushered in to help the legislative body work smoothly, but there were too many people with ingrained beliefs about how the system should work for them to ever be truly effective. There were still kinks in the system, still dissenters that bitterly opposed any sort of change that favored muggleborns or purebloods. So great was the deadlock that very few people ever tried to pass meaningful legislation anymore, and overall, the Wizengamot was as ineffective as ever.

However, a catastrophe as huge as the Ministry itself burning down allowed for a quick and easy vote. Every measure was passed, even Mrs. Scamander's (by a slim margin), and the session was disbanded.

Now, it was in the hands of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Office to try to apprehend the culprit. The Wizengamot had done all that they could do.

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_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

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"Why didn't you remind them about Harry?" asked Hermione the moment he flooed home. She had clearly been waiting to question him all day, but knew better to talk about such things at the Ministry. Even after all of these years, the walls still had ears.

"Bloody hell, you know why!" exclaimed Ron. He brushed lingering ash off of his robes and kicked off his boots before sinking into his armchair. It was red, plushy, and he often considered it his very best friend, especially during moments like these.

"No, Ronald, I do not! Look, I loved him just as much as I love you, albeit in a different way. He was my brother, my best friend, and his death -" she sucked in a breath, the pain of thinking about it still very sharp.

"Hermione, that was eleven years ago. We lost so much that night… I didn't want to bring it up again. I didn't know if I could. That would've been some sight, yeah? 'Head Auror breaks down and cries during Wizengamot session!' They're already looking for a reason to oust me, most of them think I got the job because of you," said Ron, admitting what they both already knew.

Hermione leaned down from behind the armchair and wrapped her arms around his chest. He turned his head, and they shared a tender kiss that seemed to melt the years away, sending them back to the time when they were just children, falling in love. It had been so many years, and yet their love had never faltered.

"I love you," she whispered, her lips touching his. "You got the job because you're the best, not because you're my husband."

He groaned and kissed her, harder this time, until she reluctantly pulled away.

"But Ron, this is serious," she continued, her words supported by the solemn look on her face. "Eleven years ago, Harry and James both died. Why? Because their house was burned down. Their bodies were charred almost beyond recognition. Don't you think that's relevant?"

Ron knew the story. Everyone in the wizarding world knew the story, or at least, the end of it.

The beginning of it, however, only a handful of people knew.

After their eighth year at Hogwarts, a year that Ron considered to be the very best year of his life, they had all gone their separate ways. Harry lived with Ginny in the newly repaired Godric's Hollow, while Ron and Hermione bought a small house in Sharktooth Village with the 'compensation' money paid by the Ministry. Sharktooth Village was just a small rural peninsula in Wales that had about ten wizarding families and a small magical market, along with about a hundred muggle families. Ron and Hermione's house was right on the shore. Harry and Ginny fixed up Godric's Hollow until it was as homey as the Burrow. They had all been so happy.

Harry and Ron both went into the Auror Academy while Hermione pursued a Ministry career and Ginny played quidditch for the Hollyhead Harpies. They went through the Academy, both of them receiving top marks, with Harry the very best in the class (the best ever, some said). After graduation they were soon assigned to different mentors, and thus, they drifted. They spoke less and less, but they still kept in contact and visited each other for dinner.

Seven years went by. Harry and Ron became full-fledged aurors and advanced quickly within the department. Harry and Ginny had their first son, James Sirius Potter. Ron and Hermione had their first child, Rose Weasley. All was well.

But, it was that year when things got strange. Ginny was pregnant again, and Harry started leaving for long stretches of time with no explanation. He stopped scheduling dinners where they could all get together, and he stopped attending them soon after. He stopped going into work, and after several days of not showing up, Kingsley announced that Harry was on an 'indefinite' leave of absence.

When questioned about it later, Kingsley told Ron that Harry had begged him to quit, and had repeatedly said that he had 'something' that he needed to do.

One day, Ginny came to them crying because Harry had been gone for two weeks and she had no idea where he was. James was starting to teeth, forcing her to quit her career to take care of the children. She didn't want to be a single mother, and didn't understand how it was all falling apart so quickly.

That was the first time that Harry and Ron actually dueled. When Harry got back, Ron confronted him, but he refused to say what was going on. He denied that he was cheating on Ginny and just kept repeating that he was doing 'something' that he 'had' to do. Ron refused to back down, and refused to accept his friend's evasiveness.

Things got ugly, curses flew, and Ron ended up in St. Mungo's for a few days. After that, Ron refused to speak with Harry until he apologized, but the apology never came. Hermione stayed by Ron, and after a few rejected attempts at trying to get them to reconcile, she eventually gave up.

Things only got worse. Harry was almost never home and Ginny spent most of her time crying. When he was home, they slept in separate beds, and she said it was like he was a different person. He never talked to her, he never touched her, he barely even _looked _at her. It was like she didn't even exist. The only thing that gave her hope was that occasionally, when looking at their son James, he would get a warmth to his eyes and smile, and for the next few hours she would have her Harry back. But the warmth always faded, and then it was back to living with a stranger.

Finally, there was that fateful night, when Ginny gave birth to their second son, Albus Severus Potter.

She gave birth in St. Mungo's, but there was a complication. The baby was stillborn. No matter how hard the Mediwitch tried, she could not get the baby to breathe, or get its poor little heart to start beating. Ron was there, outside of the delivery room, and he'd never forget the howls of despair that came from Ginny's throat.

That was when Harry showed up.

He brushed past them all with no word of greeting and walked straight into the delivery room. A moment later, the Mediwitch was forcefully shoved out, protesting fiercely. At this point, everyone was yelling at Harry, telling him to stop, asking him what he was doing, but he ignored them all. He slammed the door closed behind him, leaving him and Ginny and the stillborn baby alone inside of the room.

They tried to get in, they tried to force the door open, but Harry had done something so that not even a unit of Aurors and ward-breakers could get through.

Nobody knows what happened that night, not even Ron, but when the door opened two hours later, there was Harry, holding a living, breathing baby in his arms. He wordlessly deposited the baby into Hermione's lap and walked off. The aurors made to arrest him, but one look from those cold, empty eyes, and they backed away.

Everyone rushed inside, but they were quickly overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. The room felt sick, wrong, like oil slipping under their skin. One of the aurors trainees actually vomited in disgust.

Ginny was alive, but she was unconscious. Her thighs were a bloody mess, and her face was pale. A team of Mediwitches and Mediwizards rushed in and her condition was stabilized.

Ron had never been so thankful for anything in his life.

The next day Ginny wanted to leave the hospital, but the Mediwitch refused. Healing magic was remarkably quick, and she was remarkably resilient, but she needed another full day of rest to restore her health. The baby, on the other hand, needed to be kept for at least another week to make sure he was functioning normally. Nobody knew how long he had been dead in her womb, and there was the very real possibility of brain damage to consider.

Ginny didn't remember Harry coming last night, and tears of joy had filled her eyes at the knowledge that her husband had not abandoned her in her time of need. She begged Ron and Hermione to go to Godric's Hollow and see if Harry was there. Ron was hesitant to agree, but at the look of desperation in Ginny's face, he mumbled his assent.

To everyone's surprise, when Ron and Hermione went to Godric's Hollow that night, Harry was actually there. Or at least, his body was there. His mind must have been somewhere else, because he scarcely even looked at them. His eyes were transfixed on the fire burning in the fireplace.

James was sound asleep in his crib, a toy dragon curled up in his arms.

Ron and Hermione tried to talk with him, but they barely managed to get out one word responses. Yes, he had fed James. Yes, he had changed James' diaper. No, he wasn't going to tell them what happened last night.

After a few glances, Ron and Hermione silently communicated to each other that they should leave. Whatever was going on with Harry and Ginny, they needed to resolve it themselves. Harry, while unresponsive, seemed relatively okay. They both told themselves that it was probably a mixture of shock and exhaustion. Maybe he just needed the night to sleep it off. Maybe now things would finally get better.

As they were leaving, Ron turned and asked Harry one last question. It was the last thing he would ever say to his best friend.

"So how long are you staying this time?"

Harry tore his eyes off of the fire for the first time that night and looked at him. Ron could barely hold his gaze for more than a second before dropping it. Eyes weren't supposed to look like that. Harry was always warm and affectionate, but this new person was cold and empty - a blank stare.

"Don't worry mate," Harry had said, a small ironic smile on his lips, "I'm not going anywhere."

The next part everybody knew.

The auror office received an alarm at 12:04 a.m. that there was a disturbance at Godric's Hollow. Ron was on duty, and before Head Auror Dawlish could so much as get out "Conflict of interest!" he had apparated away.

The sight he was met with was scorched into his eyes and haunted his dreams for many years to come.

Godric's Hollow was burning. The fire had completely consumed the cottage and was starting to spread to the nearby houses. Muggle firemen were everywhere, but their contraptions couldn't put out a magical fire. Only magic could do that.

Ron started shouting out "_Aguamenti! Aguamenti!" _heedless of the fact that there were a number of muggle bystanders. His jets of water streamed over the house and slowly started to put the fire out. The ceiling crumbled, and with it, a part of Ron's heart. He could only hope that Harry and James had gotten out in time.

It took about thirty minutes to quell all the fires and Obliviate all the muggles. By that time, Godric's Hollow was nothing but a smear of ash and crumbled wood on the ground. Under Dawlish's orders, Ron was not allowed to check out the site, but when he heard what they found, he was glad that he had been spared.

The team that was sent in only had to dig around a little bit before they found what they were after. Two twisted, gnarled, blackened bodies were found in what used to be the basement. A number of diagnostic tests were run and every one of them came back positive. It was Harry James Potter, and his son, James Sirius Potter. The blood matched, the teeth matched, and most importantly, Harry's phoenix feather wand was found clenched in his hand.

The official story was that the house had caught fire and the two had died of smoke inhalation while they slept. They public bought it, and they mourned the loss of their Savior, The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Chosen-One, Harry Potter. A monument was erected at the site of the house to compliment the one in Godric's Hollow's town square. Where the house once stood was now a statue of Harry, his scar displayed for the world to see, holding his son James in his arms.

A national day of mourning was established on August 2nd, the day it happened. It coincided nicely with the national day of celebration established on May 2nd to mark the defeat of Voldemort. Every year, the public rejoiced and grieved the man known as Harry Potter.

But the aurors on call that day knew the truth. The magical signature of the fire was unmistakably Harry Potter's.

Anybody that knew Harry knew that he was a light sleeper, and would have awoken the instant he smelt smoke. Anybody that knew him knew that he could have easily put out the fire with a few simple spells, especially since he had died with his wand.

Harry Potter had committed suicide, and taken his son with him.

Ginny was never told, so as to spare her the horror of the truth.

"Ron, darling, are you alright?" asked Hermione lightly. With a start, Ron realized that he had been staring at the fire in the mantle for some time. When he blinked his eyes, black spots blurred his vision. He gave his wife a sad smile.

"Yes, love, just thinking," he explained. "I just wonder, that maybe there was something we could have done that night, something we could have said -"

"Don't think like that," she ordered him immediately. "Harry must have been thinking about doing it that entire year. There was nothing we could have done. He made his choice," Hermione said, her voice now fragile. "I can forgive him for doing what he did to himself, but killing his son - !" she finally broke down and started to cry.

Ron grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap, stroking her back in long, comforting motions. Her bushy hair smashed against his face as she sobbed into his shoulder, but he didn't mind. He loved every part of his wife. A few tears leaked from his own eyes as well, and it was with a shaky voice that he repeated "It's alright. It'll be alright. It's alright."

This was why he didn't bring it up at the Wizengamot. It would have opened up a can of worms that had long since been sealed shut. It was one of the greatest Ministry cover-ups of all time, and they wouldn't want to hear a word of it unless he was sure the two events were connected. Which he wasn't.

Hermione finally calmed down, and seemed embarrassed that she had lost her legendary composure. She made to climb off of his lap, but he held her there, turning her so that she straddled his waist.

"Look love, I know it's a terrible coincidence that both cases have a building burning down, but you also have to look at the facts," said Ron reasonably, calmer now that they had cried together. "Harry burned his house down himself, and since he's not alive, he could have hardly done the same thing at the Ministry. Also, that was eleven years ago. The arsons and murders only started about four years ago. It just doesn't make sense."

Hermione sniffed, acknowledging his logic. "I know you're right, but I just can't help but feel that there's a connection. You remember our days at Hogwarts?" she asked suddenly.

"What, you mean snogging you senseless in as many broom closets as we could find?" Ron said, kissing her neck teasingly.

"No, not that," she laughed, clearly appreciating his ministrations. "I meant back when there was always a mystery that we needed to solve. I have the same feeling that I used to get, the feeling that we're on to something."

"Maybe you're right," he admitted, earning himself a beaming smile. "I'm sort of getting that feeling too. I'll check into it, but you know that file is sealed tight. In the meantime…" he growled playfully, moving his lips down lower, unbuttoning her shirt.

Hermione let out a very uncharacteristic giggle, and whispered in his ear, "What exactly were you saying about broom closets?"

"My my, you're being a very naughty girl," he said, cottoning on quickly. "Maybe I ought to give you a detention." His lips ghosted across her hardening nipple.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, I'll do anything for extra credit!" she mock exclaimed.

He picked her up, her legs still straddling his waist, and started kissing her fiercely. He brought her into the bedroom, marveling at the fact that his life had ended up so perfect.

And so for the rest of the night, the two of them reenacted their Hogwarts days in a _very _unique way.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

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_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 14th, 2017**

The banging noise from the nearby cupboard was loud and insistent.

"SHUT UP!" Harry screamed, smashing his own fist against the rattling door.

The banging stopped, only to be replaced by a frantic voice.

"Dad, LET ME OUT OF HERE! I've tried everything, I can't break through the wards! Dad I'm _hungry_!" the voice pleaded.

"Well then you better HURRY THE FUCK UP!" was the only response, followed by a silencing spell on the door. Really, he should have thought of that earlier.

For the millionth time, Harry wondered why he didn't just kill him. But no, he rationalized, James was his son. You're not supposed to kill your son. He _liked _his son. Sometimes.

He turned around, thoughts of the boy already making him confused and agitated. If James didn't get out in the next few days, he supposed that he'd have to let him out. He'd been in there one week already, and two weeks inside of a cupboard could lead to starvation.

Harry paced around, restless. James would have gotten his Hogwarts letter last year and would've been entering his second year next month. He could summon very little fondness anymore, but Hogwarts was the one place that would always have a special place in his blackened heart. It was regrettable that James wouldn't get to go, but necessary. After all, dead boys couldn't just waltz through the front door.

He continued his pacing, following a well-worn path in the carpet.

This year was the year that Albus would go to Hogwarts. Harry had no doubt that Ginny was spoiling the boy, as all mothers are wont to do. Albus would get to do so many things that James never could, but it was for the best.

He stopped his pacing, his wand arm itching. He needed to release some energy.

He quickly turned around and stalked into the training room he had fashioned in Grimmauld Place. He had left Ginny all of the gold, but he had kept the house. Most people just assumed that after his death the house had sealed itself up, since he had neither formed a will nor named Ginny as the heir, and there were no Blacks left for the house to go to. Flawed reasoning, but then again, people would rationalize anything that didn't make sense in order to make it make sense.

He knew better. The world was chaos, and absolutely _nothing _made sense.

He shot out a few _Avada Kedavra's_, smiling in satisfaction as they bathed the room in a green glow. He didn't need a person to target in order for the curse to work. He always wanted everybody and everything to die, and so all he ever needed to do was speak the words.

Without warning, he felt his control snap, and he was soon spouting curses as quickly as he could scream them out.

"_Ossicur!" _The bone-breaking curse.

"_Cruxis!" _The pain curse, causing unbearable agony on whatever part of the body he hit. "_Aegratis!" _The corruption curse, causing his enemy's blood to turn to poison and their skin to fester.

"_Scoria!" _The skinning curse, literally causing his foe's skin to peel off.

"_Dolerus Funara!" _The burial curse. Causes a brutally painful death in five seconds unless the counter curse is used. A personal favorite.

"_Cruciare Inflamara!" _The painful fire curse. Really, really, painful fire.

"_Inflamara!" _The fire curse.

"_Confringo!" _The fire hex. Less pain, but a wider area of effect.

"_Confringo Maxima!" _The stronger fire hex.

"_Incendio!" _The fire charm. Only sets objects on fire, not people.

Harry felt no joy, but slowly felt his mind piecing itself back together. The only way to regain his control was through this mental exercise, this expenditure of energy, this whirling tornado of dark magic.

"_Confringo! Confringo! Reducto! Avada Kedavra! Sectumsempra! Crucio! Incendio! Crucio! Crucio! Avada Kedavra! Dolerus Funara! Cruxis! Crucio!"_

The room was nothing more than four walls, each wall spelled with so many wards that it'd take a nuclear bomb to get through them. He had spent many nights and many days in here, pouring out his magic in a never-ending stream of hatred and madness. But, every so often, it wasn't enough. Every so often, he needed _real _targets for the madness to go away. He needed to see the life leave someone's eyes, he needed to see something _burn._

"_Confringo! Inflamara! Cruciare Inflamara! Incendio! Incendio! Confringo! Confringo Maxima! FIENDFYRE!"_

Ahhh, the chaos. It was abating. The strange thing about chaos is that the only thing that can get rid of it is more chaos, or so he had learned. It had been a hard lesson, but as the demonic figures charged around the room, angry that there was nothing to _burn, _he felt his tenuous control return.

Of course, with the control came the cold. He was always cold, no matter how much fire he made.

The creatures charged towards him, sensing that he was the only flammable object in the room, but he dispelled them with a wide sweep of his wand.

He was shivering. But it was for the best. He should have known better than to think about Hogwarts and James and Albus and Ginny with such sentimentality. Emotions only made it easier for the chaos to control him.

No, he was back to being cold, emotionless, safe. For now.

He walked calmly out of the room, his mind on the Daily Prophet edition that had been delivered this morning. It had almost forced a small chuckle out of him with its absurdity. They clearly had no idea what had happened at the Ministry yesterday.

But, to be honest, he didn't really know what had happened either. He had been lax in his exercises and had been overly concerned about James being locked in a cupboard, allowing his magic to get the better of him.

No, he shook his head. That was wrong. It wasn't his magic. It was him. The 'chaos' was just him. He was just trying to rationalize his behavior.

Because, when it all boiled down to it, he was just a deranged lunatic with severe mental problems. He was aware of this, although denying it sometimes made him feel better.

Sometimes (most of the time), he just wanted to burn and kill things. That was it. The other times, he spent a large amount of energy trying _not _to burn and kill things. It was during these times that he speculated as to the reason of his madness.

Likely, it was the madness itself that caused the madness. His mind wanted to assert some control over his internal instability, and so tried to destroy things to make sense of them. But of course, such things weren't good for his mental health, creating a never-ending cycle of destruction.

Everything about him was wrong, torn,_ twisted, _but he knew the consequences of his actions when he had made them.

The Ministry affair was a failure, and a rather colossal one at that. He had never lost control on such a grand scale before, and had even forgotten to grab a trophy. He blamed James for making him feel bad about locking him into a cupboard too narrow for him to lie down properly. But no, that wasn't right – it wasn't James' fault that he locked him up in there in the first place.

But it _was _his fault for taking so bloody long to get out. Really now, it wasn't like the wards he had set were particularly hard. Any sixth year Hogwarts student could get through them.

Harry shook his head, angry that he was thinking about James yet again. He sunk into a molding chair that let out an indignant puff of dust.

"Kreacher!" he barked out. The house elf _popped _by his side in an instant. Harry still had enough lingering affection for the elf that he had not yet killed it. Looking at his form, he felt the slightest twinge of regret. Kreacher was trembling, Regulus' locket bumping up and down on his skeletal chest, no doubt wondering what awful deed his master would make him do next.

"I'm hungry," Harry said simply.

"Yes, Master, Kreacher is bringing you food right away," the elf croaked out before _popping _away. A second later, he returned, carrying a platter of freshly killed rats.

"What the _hell _is this?!" shouted Harry, drawing his wand in an instant.

Kreacher continued shaking uncontrollably, and rasped, "Master Harry Potter ordered Kreacher to bring him _only _fresh rats all of last month. Master James didn't like them, but Harry Potter insisted."

Hmm, he did vaguely remember that. It had helped quench his thirst for blood. Still, rats?

"Apologies, Kreacher. Leave the rats, and bring me real food," he ordered. The pathetic thing could hardly be punished for following his orders, but his mind still bayed for blood.

Kreacher vanished again, leaving the platter of rats on the ground. Harry bent down and picked one of them up, memories of sinking his teeth into them repeatedly flashing in his mind. He stopped when he realized that he was _currently _sinking his teeth into one of them, and spat out the blood and fur in disgust, ignoring the part of him that positively purred in delight.

He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve and tossed the rat into the air, sending out a silent _Reducto! _that blasted the rat in a shower of blood and guts. It splattered everywhere, but the room was about as disgusting as rooms could get anyway. He should probably ask Kreacher if he had ordered him to stop cleaning or something – it certainly wouldn't be the first time.

Harry picked up another rat, resisting the urge to bite its head off, and sent it sailing into the air as well. A wordless _Diffindo! _sliced it cleanly in half, sending a neat little stream of blood down onto the nearby couch.

Kreacher returned with another light _pop, _this time with a platter piled high with sandwiches. He ignored the elf at first, sending another rat into the air and blasting it with an _Inflamara! _that sent it careening to the other side of the room. Rat fireballs. He liked the idea more than he should have.

A light smoke filled the air, indicating that the rat fireball had set part of the carpet on fire. With a sigh, he turned to Kreacher.

"Thanks for the sandwiches. Go put out that fire now, before it spreads," he said blandly. He sadistically almost added 'With your bare hands!' but refrained. He had been quick with the sandwiches.

"Of course, Master. Kreacher will always protect the Noble House of Black," Kreacher said gravely. Harry didn't even bother watching to see what he did to smother the fire. Instead, he turned his attentions to the pile of sandwiches that were calling his name. He picked the first one up, and it was roast beef, with the beef red and bloody. Kreacher certainly had good tastes.

He chowed down, his thoughts calm once again. The baser, carnal pleasures of life had a way of soothing his nerves that even fire could not achieve.

After two more sandwiches that he could barely recall eating, he stood up. He suddenly felt tired, and nothing sounded better than a good, long rest. He could hardly remember the last time he had slept, which meant that it had probably been quite a while. He stretched his memory and recalled taking a short nap on a couch about four days ago, but nothing earlier than that. Thinking about his sleep deprivation seemed to make it a reality, causing his steps became heavy and labored.

He climbed up the stairs, taking special delight at seeing the trophies of his special kills mounted prominently along the wall above the heads of the house elves that had served the House of Black. He imagined that most of the little things probably cheered when they cut their heads off.

If only everyone could be so agreeable.

He paused in front of Sirius' room, which was now James' room, and fought down the surge of emotion that inevitably followed. He hated coming up here, and avoided this part of the house like the plague. When he wanted to sleep he usually just slept on one of the house's many couches, but for some reason, he had a strange desire to sleep in a bed tonight.

He kept walking and headed to the master bedroom. When he walked in, it was to a putrid stench. Bloody chicken feathers littered the ground everywhere, and there was a dead body of a woman chained up in the corner. He spared a passing thought as to what exactly had happened to the chicken _bodies, _but then decided that he would rather not know.

He looked at the woman and sighed. She had been a pretty thing, and had come willingly back with him from a bar one night about three weeks ago. It was a week after he had burned down a random cottage and his mind had been clear enough for public interaction.

Of course, her satisfaction at bedding him soon turned to horror when she woke up the next morning and realized that she was chained to the floor. He certainly hadn't _planned_ on doing it, and indeed, was mildly alarmed that he had lost clarity just a week after burning down the cottage. Lately, his outings had been having less and less effect. A week of clarity was unusually brief, and his details of what had happened afterwards were foggy. It didn't look like he had raped her, but the dog collar around her neck indicated that he had turned her into some twisted sort of pet.

Oh yes, now he remembered. After starving her into submission for two weeks, he had tried to give her to James a week ago for his twelfth birthday. His birthday was on August 6th while Albus' was on August 1st, making them easy enough for him to remember, even in the depths of his insanity.

Unfortunately, James had not showed the proper gratitude that his crazed mind had deemed necessary, and had merely cried and begged for him to let her go. That was what had made him angry enough to put James in the cupboard. It all made sense now.

He hadn't come into this room for the last week, so he supposed that she had simply starved to death.

He felt a monumental surge of guilt and sadness that he rapidly pushed back down. Guilt and despair would do nothing but make him more likely to commit more atrocious acts, and sooner.

He summoned a blanket and laid it delicately over her corpse.

Tomorrow, he decided. He would deal with everything tomorrow.

He trudged over to the bed and pulled back the covers, only to discover _exactly _where the chicken bodies had gone. Sighing he pushed a clump of them over to the other side of the bed and laid down. He was so tired, so very, very tired.

In seconds, he was asleep.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

James sat down, sucking his bleeding knuckles in order to help quench the burning hunger in his throat. He had punched and kicked the door for a solid hour after his dad had screamed at him before giving it up as futile.

His dad was a sick bastard. He supposed that he should be thankful, in that his dad had probably felt the urge to kill him a million times over by now and had yet to do so, but it's hard to feel something like gratitude towards a person like his father.

The man had made him eat rats for a month, had given him a slavefor his birthday, and then locked him in a cupboard for a week with only a bottle of water for company. That's not to mention all of the brutal training his father put him through every day for the past four years of his life. James already could cast more dark curses than most people had even _heard _of, and had been on the receiving end of more dark curses than he cared to remember.

He had the scars to prove it.

His father's atrocities were too many to count. James felt a well of tears spring forth, but he quickly forced himself to stop crying so as to conserve his water supply. He had no doubt that his father would be true to his word and leave him in here as long as it took for him to get out, and it wouldn't be wise to dehydrate himself.

His situation was similar to what his dad had done to him when he was only nine, when he had made the colossal mistake of admitting that he was afraid of the dark.

His dad had flown into a rage and cursed him with a spell that made him temporarily blind. Then, he had locked him in a room and ordered Kreacher to bring him meals twice a day but otherwise not interact with him at all. James had quickly learned that darkness was not something to be afraid of. After all, his dad functioned just as well during the day as he did at night, and he was the closest thing to a monster that James knew of.

But he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid of anything anymore.

He couldn't help but feel sympathy for the pathetic creature his father had become. He remembered growing up, how his father was not always this crazy. For about seven years, his father was relatively normal, if by normal one meant a cold unapproachable father figure ninety percent of the time and a loving father the other ten.

James grew to cherish those moments when his father allowed himself to be human. He didn't know the specifics, but his father had explained to him that he couldn't express emotions too often or else very bad things would happen. He had never believed him until four years ago, around his eighth birthday, when his father returned home drenched in blood.

James shuddered. He didn't like to remember that day.

It wasn't long afterwards that the heads started going up on the wall. James had to walk past the undeniable proof that his dad was a serial killer every day on his way to bed. Their eyes stared at him, and very rarely did he sleep through the night without waking up in a feverish sweat from nightmares.

The only thing that had kept James sane was the presence of Kreacher. When his father ordered Kreacher to 'Serve us only fresh rats,' the wily old elf had interpreted the order as pertaining only to food he directly served. So, if he happened to leave a plate of real food outside of James' door, and if James just happened to find it… well, accidents happened. The truly awful moments had been dinner times, when his dad's eyes drilled holes into him with their icy glare until he took a few tentative bites of the mangled rats. Only after he swallowed a few mouthfuls was his father appeased.

He had thrown up every single night.

Then there were the times that his dad hurt him during their numerous training sessions. He had long ago ordered Kreacher not to heal him unless his condition was life-threatening, but that didn't stop the elf from leaving ointments and potions by the side of his bed.

Kreacher had been the parent that his father could never be. After his father snapped, he would croak out stories about the brave warriors and the noble deeds of the House of Black. He would bring him tea when he had nightmares, and play with him on those rare days when his father let him outside.

But, for all the things he withheld, his father allowed him one thing - Knowledge.

Any effort James made to learn more spells or magic was heavily rewarded. Studying bought him his father's pride, outside time, ice cream, and sometimes a disguised trip into the Wizarding World. Since he had unrestricted access to the Black library, he spent his days reading page after page of dusty old tomes filled with the wickedest of spells. There wasn't much else for him to do, and when he was reading, his father mostly left him alone. Still, he had no love of books, and they could never replace his desire for actual friends. James had no friends, and had never truly interacted with someone his own age.

Sitting in this dark, cramped cupboard only reinforced his feelings of loneliness and isolation.

He felt a surge of pure anger. Sure, he might have initially studied and practiced to earn his father's approval, but not anymore. No, now he had a much different goal in mind. He would escape Grimmauld Place. He knew enough of the wizarding world to be able to manage. He knew a lot of things that his father had never told him. He had a mother and a brother, who was undoubtedly attending Hogwarts this fall. James knew he could never go to Hogwarts, all because everyone thought that he and his father were dead. Oh, he had seen the papers. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. His father had burned down their house and staged their deaths. What he still didn't understand was _why. _

His hand clenched his wand spasmodically. The feel of its smooth handle rubbing over his palm confused him even more. His father had gotten him this wand four years ago for his eighth birthday, right after he went absolutely mad. As always, he didn't know the details, but when his father had returned covered in soot carrying an entire armful of wands, he didn't think it was prudent to ask questions. One of the wands had chosen him, despite his young age - 12 inches, blackthorn, dragon heartstring. That was the last time James could remember his father being truly, genuinely proud of him.

James sighed. Part of him still loved his father, despite everything he had done to him and other people over the years. He father just wasn't… sane. He needed help. What kind of son would he be if he didn't help his father when he needed him most? Maybe he would stay at Grimmauld Place. He was all his father had left, his last link to humanity. If he ran away, who knew what would happen?

As always, James had come full circle with his thoughts. And he still wasn't any closer to opening up the door.

James started howling.

His hands started scrabbling at the door once again, crossing over the grooves and tracks that his nails had made days earlier.

"Dammit Dad, LET ME OUT! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! I fucking hate you… I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

James stopped when the scabs on his fingertips tore open once again.

"FUCK YOU!"

He started shooting "_Reducto!"_ after "_Reducto!"_ at the door, but it held firm.

Incensed, he resorted to something else. He shouted "_Grassus!_" flooding the hinges with grease. An "_Inflamara!"_ set the grease on fire, sending a wave of heat onto his face. But, when he tested the hinges, they remained unaltered.

"_Travius!_" he called out, but the splintering curse seemed to have no effect.

He cried out "_Glacius!"_ and "_Reducto!"_ in quick succession, trying to freeze the door and then explode it. Unfortunately, the door didn't even so much as get frosty, and the exploding curse had as little effect as his first one hundred or so attempts.

James decided to get creative, and after a few minutes of thinking intoned, "_Holkvi Sumara!"_ an ancient curse used by the Egyptians to summon a thief through the wards and barriers of a pyramid for 'questioning.' Nothing. Damn, he thought that one would work.

Well, wood was like a tree's skin, but after two blasts of the skinning curse, "_Scoria! Scoria!"_ the wood didn't even get flaky.

Maybe if he weakened the wood with an _"Aegratis!..."_ No, the door remained as healthy and uncorrupted as ever.

Perhaps a less creative approach then. "_Explotum Maxima! Rupturatus! Fissurla! Lasseraxus!_" All were curses, designed to explode, rupture, break apart, and lacerate, respectively. But, he might as well have been sending stunning spells for all the good they were doing him.

He huffed and sat back down. All of those spells and the only marks he could see on the door were where his bloody fingernails had scratched them up.

Wait a second…

He leaned in closer, and almost punched himself for his stupidity. His father might have warded the door against all manner of magical assaults, but maybe, he had forgotten about the muggle ones.

Excitedly, James conjured a mouse that he then transfigured into an axe. He swung the axe as hard as he could, only for it to bounce right off and swing back to hit him hard in the shoulder. He yowled in pain and quickly screamed, _"Percurare!" _to stem the flow of blood gushing out.

A second later he regretted his decision. The cure-all spell was effective at healing most wounds, but it required an incredibly large amount of magic, and the resulting wave of lethargy hit him like a freight train. Because in the magical world, nothing was effective _and _easy. No, that'd be much too convenient.

He had been exhausting himself all week sending spell after spell at all the surfaces of the cupboard, trying all matter of escape routes. He had tried to dig a hole in the floor to burrow out, he had tried transfiguring the floor to water or sand, he had tried banishing the ceiling and transfiguring it to something other than wood. He had tried self-transfiguration and apparition, even though he could not do either, and knew it was dangerous to try. Hell, yesterday he had tried summoning an earth demon, only for it to bite him in the thigh and disappear because he offered it a conjured sacrificial creature instead of a real one.

He was, to put it simply, very, very tired. He had barely slept because the cupboard was too small for him to lie down comfortably. On top of that, he hadn't had any food for a week. He could conjure, kill, and cook as many animals as he wanted, but they would turn to nothing in his stomach courtesy of Gamps Law of Transfiguration. At least the refilling charm on his water bottle still hadn't run out. He knew there was a limit to how long the spell could last, and if it failed then he would truly be in trouble.

He forced his weary mind to concentrate back on the door. The bloody grooves still stared at him, taunting him.

He frowned and considered the possibility that his father had warded against _all _types of magic, including conjured and transfigured items. That would explain why, when he had managed to partially transfigure his nails into claws two days ago, the claws had been equally ineffective in damaging the door.

So, only non-magical items then. That was a problem, considering that all he had with him were his wand, robes, and shoes. He could always use his nails again, but they were already worn down to bloody stumps. Sighing, he slowly began unlacing his shoes. It was the best idea he had. He would bang his shoes against the door until it slowly started to crack and weaken. His strength was fading, and if he wanted to avoid what was sure to be a brutal punishment from his father, he had to get out soon.

Mechanically, James started bashing his leather shoes against the door. His only hoped that they wouldn't wear out before the door did. Or more importantly, that he wouldn't wear out before either of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 19th, 2017**

Albus Potter yawned and stretched his arms above his head contentedly. His window was open, and the bright morning sun shined down onto his bleary face. A fresh morning breeze from his open window danced playfully on his skin, enticing him to rub the sleep from his eyes and sit up.

"Albus?" called his mother from downstairs. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah mom!" he hollered back.

"Well you might want to hurry up! The earlier you get ready, the sooner we can go to Diagon Alley!"

That certainly woke him up. He jumped out of bed, a childish smile of excitement on his face. It was August 18th! He was going school shopping for Hogwarts! He would be getting his wand today!

He tore through his clothes like a tornado, flinging on a pair of clean robes before rushing downstairs. His messy black hair stuck up in random spots around his head, and his green eyes were still a little crusted over.

When his mom saw him, she just laughed and mussed his hair up even further, ignoring his embarrassed groan of "Moooommm!"

"I don't think I've ever seen you get ready so quickly. I made you some eggs and toast and we're not going until you've eaten at least half of it," she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Albus sighed but picked up his fork dutifully. He couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts and start learning spells like Teddy and Victoire. Would his wand have a phoenix feather like his dad's, or a unicorn hair like his mom's? Or, even cooler, a dragon heart string like Teddy's!

"My, my, someone's excited," Ginny observed. His bubbling energy was easy to spot, probably because he felt no need to hide it, as he usually would have. He was going to Diagon Alley today!

He merely nodded happily, his mouth stuffed with toast and egg.

"I hope you understand," Ginny said delicately, "that today, there will be some attention on you. Your father was a brave wizard and was loved by many. You're his only son, so they'll expect great things from you."

Albus swallowed the lump of food and felt it uncomfortably lodge in his throat. "But mom, I'm nothing special. I bet the other kids will be loads better than me," he said, voicing his fears. "What if they all hate me? What if I'm not good enough?"

Ginny reached her arm out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Albus, you're already the very best son a mother could ask for. I'll be proud of you, no matter what happens. Your father didn't put much stock into what other people thought about him, and neither should you."

Albus nodded his head, but on the inside, he was still conflicted. He wasn't anything special _yet, _but he wanted to live up to his father's name and prove that he was worthy of it. Everyone would be expecting great things, and he didn't want to let them down.

"But mom, what if I'm put into Slytherin?" he said, whispering the words as if by saying it louder, he would somehow jinx things.

His mother frowned, and sternly replied, "Then you'll be in Slytherin, and I'll love you just the same. Some of the bravest witches and wizards I know were in Slytherin. One of them is your namesake – Severus Snape. He gave up everything, even his life, in order to defeat Voldemort."

Once again, Albus nodded, but he wasn't convinced. Everyone always said that Voldemort was a Slytherin, as were most of the Death Eaters. If he was sorted there, everyone would think that _he _was an evil dark wizard.

Albus gobbled down the rest of the food and stood up expectantly.

His mom merely looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Mom!" Albus whined, pouting. He knew his mother couldn't resist his puppy dog eyes.

"Alright, alright, let's go," she caved, standing up. Albus whooped for joy before practically running to the fireplace. His mom followed at a more sedate pace, making Albus tap his foot impatiently on the floor.

She reached the floo, but paused and turned towards Albus. "Now son, remember, the Alley gets crowded so stay by my side at all times."

"Alright, alright, let's go," agreed Albus hastily, echoing her words from earlier.

His mom grabbed some floo powder from the urn next to the mantle and tossed it into the fire. "Diagon Alley!" she shouted before stepping through.

Albus followed her, doing his best to shout out "Diagon Alley!" as loudly and clearly as his mother. The green flames engulfed him and soon he was spinning his way haphazardly through the floo network, his eyes shut tight and his elbows tucked firmly by his side.

The fireplace spat him out, causing him to almost trip and fall, but he caught himself at the last second. He had enough experience with floo travel to not make muggleborn mistakes.

Albus looked around and recognized the familiar room of the Leaky Cauldron. His mom was conversing with Tom the barkeep, and the two looked his way when they noticed him stepping out of the fireplace.

"Ah, there's young Albus!" said Tom cheerfully. "Spitting image of his father!"

"Yes," Ginny said, smiling warmly as Albus walked over. "He is. We actually need to be off, his school supplies won't buy themselves."

"Ah, not to worry, I understand. Feel free to stop by a cuppa when you have the time, on the house," Tom offered. "Good luck at Hogwarts, lad!" he said towards Albus.

"Thank you sir," Albus said politely.

"Thanks Tom. C'mon Albus," she said, leading him towards the back of the room. A few of the patrons looked up from their newspapers and cups of coffee and upon recognizing him, gave him bright smiles that he awkwardly returned. Albus followed his mom, his excitement building. It wasn't as if he had never been to Diagon Alley before, but he was finally here because he was going to Hogwarts. There was a huge difference between accompanying his mom on a shopping trip and actually getting to shop for himself.

His mom tapped the familiar pattern of bricks on the wall, causing the magnificent archway of Diagon Alley to reveal itself. Albus made to charge in, but his mom kept a very firm and very embarrassing grip on his hand.

"Albus, remember! Stay next to me!" she reminded him before freeing his arm. Albus was mortified, but luckily, it didn't seem as if anybody had noticed.

He and his mother walked in together, and although he didn't go running off, his eyes were dancing wildly in his head in an attempt to see everything at once.

The streets were crowded with families doing their Hogwarts shopping and people enjoying the last few weeks of summer. Sunshine beamed down on everyone, and the laughter of children mingled with the background noises of the alley to create an idyllic scene.

However, after a few moments of blissful happiness, Albus couldn't help but realize that there was something… off… about the Alley. The joy seemed too strained to be natural, and the smiles seemed too forced. Vendors were still hocking their wares and people were still haggling over prices, but it had an edge that Albus was wholly unfamiliar with. As they walked deeper into the Alley, Albus noticed his mother's tense stance and became even more confused. Did his mom know something that he didn't?

He looked around even more, trying to ignore the flashy shop windows and the flamboyantly dressed witches and wizards to see what was going on. It didn't take him long to realize that a few stores were boarded up and clearly shut down, despite the fact that this was the busiest month of the year. Even more observation allowed Albus to notice the foreboding looking men in black cloaks stalking around the edges of the alley, their sharp eyes scrutinizing the crowd, and their wands clenched firmly in their hands.

"Mom, who are those men?" Albus asked hesitantly. As if alerted by some preternatural sense, the man Albus was currently gazing at turned his head sharply and made direct eye contact with him. Albus dropped his gaze immediately.

"Those are aurors, hitwizards, and volunteers," his mom explained. "They're supposed to be undercover."

"Right, but what are they here for?" questioned Albus, his eyes still locked on the ground.

"They're here to keep us safe," his mom answered, leading them towards Flourish and Blotts.

"Safe from what?" Albus asked, his curiosity demanding a full explanation.

"From bad people," she replied shortly, walking into the book store.

"What bad people?"

"Albus, enough questions," his mom said with exasperation. "What's on your book list, again?"

Albus recognized a distraction attempt when he saw one, but allowed her to change the conversation.

"Standard Book of Spells, Volume I," he read out, "Beginners Transfiguration, Defending Against the Dark Arts Part One, A History of Goblin Rebellions, Starter Charms Manuel, 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi, Beginners Potion Making, and Decoding the Night Sky."

Ginny nodded, as if this was new information to her, although he'd be willing to bet that she had already memorized the list.

The two of them walked through the isles, picking up the required texts. It was a lot less fun than Albus had envisioned, especially when his mom refused to let him buy "Hexes and Jinxes to Befuddle Your Enemies" and "Untraceable Poisons."

They left the bookstore and headed to Madam Malkin's. His mom went to get his potions supplies while he was fitted for robes.

Madam Malkin recognized him instantly and led him to the measuring room.

"Up you get, dearie," she said, smiling at him warmly.

He climbed up on the stool, taking note of the boy next to him who looked like he was just finishing up.

"Hullo, I'm Nicholas. Nicholas Reed."

"Albus Potter," he replied. The boy's surname, as well as his complete lack of recognition at the name Potter, let Albus know that Nicholas was a muggleborn. "So, it must have been a great surprise, getting your Hogwarts letter," he said sympathetically.

"Oh yes," the boy drawled sarcastically, "what a wonderful surprise. I was set to attend the best private school in London, and after that, my name was already down for Cambridge. But no, instead I have to spend my years learning stupid tricks that will be absolutely useless in the _real _world, and I'll probably have to go to some second rate University."

Albus had absolutely no idea how to respond.

"And the clothes!" the boy continued, heedless of his peer's growing discomfort. "They're practically ancient! Who wants to walk around dressed in bathrobes all day? Give me a pair of jeans and a t-shirt any day."

"How crass!" exclaimed Madam Malkin, gesturing for her assistant to hurry-up and finish fitting the Reed boy.

"Well, they're traditional," attempted Albus, taking special note of Madam Malkin's dark expression and the growing ferocity of the measuring tape. "Witches and wizards have worn robes since the 13th century. It's part of our culture." The measuring tape finally fell to the floor, and Madam Malkin began the pinning process with an approving nod in his direction. Meanwhile, the boy was taking off his measuring garment, and threw it to the floor without a second thought.

"Oh, all that tradition nonsense is just silly. Wizarding culture should move on with the times. It's so backwards it's almost comical. Anyway, it was nice meeting you Albus," the boy said with apparently genuine goodwill. He held out his hand for Albus to shake it.

Albus looked at it like he would a pile of dragon dung before replying, "I'm afraid I can't say the same."

Nicholas' face morphed from a smile to a scowl near instantaneously. "Oh, so your one of _those _types. Fine, you'll see what your prejudice will bring to you soon enough."

"I'm not prejudiced!" Albus squawked indignantly. "You're just an annoying boy that doesn't understand anything about our culture. It's not because you're a muggleborn, it's because you're _stupid_!"

Nicholas just glared at him before stomping his way out of the store.

"Oh dear, I know you're looking forward to making friends," said Madam Malkin sympathetically, "but you'll have to watch out for those uppity muggleborn types. No sense of decorum or respect."

"But Madam Malkin, that's not true! It was just that Reed boy who was like that," disagreed Albus.

"Oh no, I assure you, I've been fitting them for school clothes all week, and every one of them is exactly the same," sneered Madam Malkin. Albus was now feeling doubly uncomfortable. Bad behavior in a child was one thing, but he didn't know how to respond to an adult when they were clearly in the wrong. Instead, he opted for an awkward silence, which didn't seem to bother her one bit.

Soon they were finished, and Albus stepped gratefully off of the stool. His mom walked into the store and went to handle the money aspect while he browsed around the pre-made section of robes.

Row upon row of sleek, sophisticated robes met his gaze, and he couldn't help but smile. He enjoyed their formality, their cultured and refined look, and couldn't understand why Nicholas Reed seemed to dislike them. Of course, the section was marred by an aisle that held all of the latest 'muggle-inspired' robes. It gave Albus a sense of fierce satisfaction to see that there was nobody in the aisle.

To Albus, it was the difference between wearing something classy and something gauche. He was the last remaining Potter – he had to look the part.

He brought a few robes to his mom and managed to bully her into buying them for him. They were relatively wealthy, so he didn't feel too guilty about it.

They exited the store a few bags heavier and a few galleons lighter, and his mom had to forcefully steer him away from Quality Quidditch Supplies.

When he began protesting, she countered with an airy "Oh, so you don't want to get your wand then? Well, alright, if you insist, I suppose I can get you a broom instead…"

"Wait! No!" interrupted Albus quickly. "I need to get a wand! I can't go to Hogwarts without one!"

"Well then let's go to Ollivander's, shall we?" she replied. Albus had to acknowledge that his mother was a very crafty witch, because he soon found himself following behind her with nary a second glance at Quality Quidditch.

When they arrived at Ollivander's, Albus had to stop himself from jumping up and down. He kept repeating in his mind that he was his father's son and that Harry Potter never jumped around like a monkey in public. Approaching the building, Albus couldn't help but notice that the left half of it seemed to be newer than the right.

When his mother closed the door, a soft silence fell over the shop. The walls and floors were dusty, but the dust seemed to have an otherworldly sparkle to it that glimmered softly when Albus turned his head.

"Ah, Mrs. Genevra Potter," came an eerie voice from behind the counter that gave Albus goose bumps. "Nine inches, hazel, unicorn hair. A fine wand for quick spell work. And you, you must be Mr. Albus Severus Potter."

As Ollivander emerged, Albus felt his nerves calm significantly. He was just a wizened old man, with milky blue eyes and frail tendrils of white hair curled around his wrinkled head.

But still, as he held his gaze, Albus couldn't help but feel disconcerted. It felt as if he could see right through him.

Realizing he was staring, Albus coughed hurriedly and responded, "Yes sir. Nice to meet you."

"Ahh, an excellent liar. Your father was never good with that, I'm afraid," Ollivander said blandly. Albus felt abashed, but Ollivander paid no attention and continued to reminisce. "Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather, nice and supple. He went through about half of the store before he found his wand, a truly excellent customer…"

Ginny cleared her throat pointedly, breaking Ollivander out of his reverie.

"Ah yes, apologies," Ollivander said with a start. "I have many fond memories of your father, and I often find myself dwelling too frequently on the past. He was a great man, and his death was truly a tragedy. Now Albus, which arm is your wand arm?"

Albus wordlessly held out his right arm, and a measuring tape sprung up and started taking random measurements all around his body. Ollivander began meandering around the back of the shop, humming tunelessly and pulling boxes down seemingly at random. Albus was fairly certain that the distance between his nostrils had nothing to do with his wand, and was about to say something to Ollivander, when the old man waved his wand and sent the measuring tape fell down to the ground in a lifeless heap.

"Here we go! Nine inches, willow, dragon heart string. A spirited combination."

Albus had no more than grabbed the wand and held it over his head before Ollivander yanked it quickly back.

"No, no, that won't do at all. Here, try this. Ten and a half inches, maple, unicorn hair, excellent for charms."

Albus went to try the next wand, but that was yanked out of his hand just as quickly as the first.

"Ah! Tricky like your father, I see! Well no matter. Here, eight inches, oak, phoenix feather, a very stubborn wand."

Albus raised the wand above his head and the wood of the front counter splintered violently.

"Hmm, definitely not. But we're getting closer! Alright, how about this. Eleven inches, rowan, dragon heart string."

Albus lifted the wand and swung it, and the entire front window of the store exploded into a thousand tiny pieces of glass.

"Goodness gracious, certainly not!" exclaimed Ollivander, repairing the window quickly. Instead of being angry, he seemed absolutely delighted that half of his store had just been blown up. Indeed, with each new wand that was tried and discarded, Ollivander became happier and happier. Albus tried wand after wand until there was a fairly sizable pile of them on the counter.

"I think I might have an idea," Ollivander said finally, his eyes alight with joy. "Yes, yes, very unusual, but it could work. One moment, let me find it… Ah! Here it is! Try this one, eleven and a half inches, aspen, phoenix feather…"

As soon as Albus grasped the ivory white wand, he knew it was his. Smiling, he raised it above his head and swung it down, creating a magnificent cascading waterfall of gold and silver sparks.

Ollivander and his mother clapped merrily.

"Excellent, dear boy, truly excellent! I see we have a budding duelist on our hands! Aspen, the wand of revolutionaries and warriors; enough flexibility to bend, and enough firmness to remain unbroken. I haven't sold an aspen wand for a generation," Ollivander said proudly.

Albus looked at his wand with new admiration. It was certainly beautiful, and he couldn't help the small thrill that went through him at the knowledge that his wand was _special. _

"Thank you sir," said Albus distractedly, still examining his wand.

"How much do we owe you, Garrick?" asked his mother.

"Ginny, after all that you and your husband did for me, charging you anything would be outright villainy," Ollivander stated resolutely.

His mother made a token effort to try to dissuade him, but soon gave up when it became clear that Ollivander wasn't going to change his mind. Before either of them realized what was happening, Albus and Ginny were politely ushered out of the shop.

Ginny tried to get Albus to put his wand in the bag along with everything else, but he heatedly refused, and instead stowed it in the front pocket of his robes.

They had gotten everything from the school list, so his mom made to start heading back to the Leaky Cauldron. Albus followed behind her, his mind still on his wand and all of the spells he would start practicing as soon as he got home.

As if reading his mind, his mother turned towards him and stated, "There's really no reason to be carrying around your wand. You can't use it until you get to Hogwarts, it's not allowed."

"I know mom, I won't," Albus said, pretending to sound put-out and disheartened. In reality, his mind was already figuring out ways to practice spells without his mother finding out.

His mom frowned, but looked convinced, and they walked the rest of the way to the Leaky Cauldron. More than a few passerby waved and nodded at him, which was a decidedly odd sensation, if not an entirely unpleasant one.

As they walked through the bar, Albus suddenly stopped in the middle of the room. In the table in front of him was a man reading a newspaper, and on the front of that newspaper blared the headline - **ATTACK AT MINISTRY - DEATH TOLL UP TO 32! NEW SECURITY MEASURES ENACTED BY WIZENGAMOT!**

His mom turned around when she realized that he was no longer following, and at first did not understand what he was doing.

"C'mon Albus, let's head back. We're having Ron and Hermione over for dinner tonight."

Albus turned his head to face her, his eyes stony. "You knew about this, didn't you?" he accused, pointing wildly at the newspaper, uncaring of the fact that they had a small audience and that the man who was reading the newspaper was incredibly alarmed.

It took Ginny a few seconds to catch on to what was happening, but when she did, she looked…exasperated.

"Albus, I didn't want to worry you," she explained. "It happened almost a week ago, and there's excellent security in the Alley."

Albus simply glared at her. He couldn't believe that she would try to keep something like this from him! It was outrageous! What else had she been hiding from him? Would she always keep him in the dark to 'protect' him?

Seeing her son practically boiling with anger, and seeing the growing curiosity of the bar's patrons, she made a strategic decision.

"Come, Albus. We'll talk more at the house. Your father would not approve of your behavior," she said, using what she knew to be the trump card.

Albus visibly slumped and nodded mutely. She was right, of course. His father wouldn't approve of such displays in public. Albus was a Potter, the Potter heir, and had a reputation to maintain.

He followed her into the floo, spitting out "Godric's Hollow!" as the fire enveloped him.

His mother would have a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

Ron cursed at the ineffectual bureaucracy of the Ministry, doing his best to keep his muttered threats inaudible.

He knew the file was sealed, but honestly, this was getting ridiculous. Every single person had given him the runaround and refused to even admit that there was a Harry Potter file, much less be the ones responsible for bringing it back to light.

He had finally managed to schedule a meeting with Minister Shacklebolt, but it didn't go quite like he had planned. Kingsley had been polite and the two of them had chatted about old times with the appropriate amount of nostalgia. However, the moment Ron mentioned the Harry Potter file he might as well have brought a gorgon head into the room, because Kingsley turned to stone.

There was no Harry Potter file. There had never been a Harry Potter file. Harry Potter's house burned down of natural causes, killing him and his son. It was a terrible accident.

Ron had almost screamed in frustration, but had managed to keep his expression detached and polite. At least, until he got back to office, at which point the obscenities flew out of his mouth in a garbled rage.

Ron continued to mindlessly shift the papers around on his desk, thinking about what little knowledge Kingsley _had _given him. Kingsley had his spare staff going over thousands upon thousands of records, and they had stumbled upon something that had been buried for years.

Apparently the first instance of arson was not four years ago at Ollivander's, as he had been led to believe, but a week earlier at a farmhouse owned by an elderly squib and her muggle husband. Since the woman was only a squib, the Ministry had left it to the muggle please-men to handle and had only made a small note of it.

Now, it was the first major lead he had in the case.

The infuriating thing was that the Ministry literally had nothing on the incident other than the fact that it occurred. He knew it happened in Surrey, and he knew the last name, "Cooper." The only magic-aware contacts Ron knew of in Surrey were Harry's miserable old relatives, the Dursleys. He did _not _want to see them again, but he had to go interview them in the off chance that they could help.

He snorted. More than likely the fat one would try to shoot him the first chance he got with his muggle fireleg.

Ron sighed and looked at the clock. It was almost 4pm, and he got off at 5pm. He was about to make a halfhearted attempt to actually organize the papers on his desk instead of shuffling them when a memo dive-bombed into his office. It was red, which meant that it was critically urgent. He hastily unrolled it, his eyes scanning the page and grower wider as he reached the bottom.

In seconds, he was grabbing his hat and running out of the office. He ignored the concerned calls of his colleagues and raced to floo, tossing in some powder and shouting, "St. Mungo's!"

Ron was unceremoniously ejected from the fireplace into the waiting room of the hospital.

He ran up to the woman at the desk, cutting in front of the line and ignoring the aggravated shouts and mumbles.

"Ron Weasley, Head of the Auror Office, here to see Jasmine Pritchett," he said rapidly.

The woman at the counter seemed to accept his identity at face value and curtly responded, "Fourth Floor, Room 418."

Ron nodded and walked briskly towards the lift. He climbed in, along with a few other people, and jabbed the "4" button repeatedly.

Waiting for the elevator to stop at each of the floors to allow people to come in and out was pure torture. However, the lift finally reached the Fourth Floor, and he dashed out into the hallway. In hindsight, he really needn't have talked with the woman at the counter at all, because the screams echoing through the hall were easy enough to follow to room 418.

The woman, Jasmine Pritchett, was clearly dying. The burns had damaged too many of her organs and the nerve damage was too severe to heal. On top of that, she had caught some type of infection from the gaping holes burned into her intestines that was steadily weakening her immune system.

This was the woman who had screamed about 'The Demon.' If the memo was correct, she had less than an hour left to live.

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" asked one of the harried Mediwizards politely yet firmly. A group of them were trying to ease Mrs. Pritchett's pain, but were clearly unsuccessful.

"Yes, I'm Head Auror Weasley, here to question Mrs. Jasmine Pritchett," Ron replied authoritatively. "She is a key witness to the Ministry attack. I see she has woken from her coma, which means that I have to interview her now before she becomes… _unavailable _for conversation." It was the nicest way to say that he needed to talk to her before she died that Ron could muster.

"Sir!" exclaimed the Mediwizard indignantly. "As you can see, she is quite indisposed at the moment! Her condition is critical, and she's in no state to answer any - "

"Apologies, Mediwizard Hodgens," Ron interrupted, sneaking a furtive glance at the man's nametag, "but I wasn't asking your permission. She's a witness to a crime and belongs in auror custody."

"I will _not _have you harassing my patients!" Hodgens argued heatedly.

"And I will _not _allow you to jeopardize this investigation! Now, unless you want me to arrest you, I suggest you move aside!" shouted Ron over the continuous wails of Mrs. Pritchett.

Mediwizard Hodgens looked mutinous, but after a few moments of attempting to stare Ron down, he bitterly moved aside.

Ron wasted no time and immediately ordered, "Everybody out!"

The Mediwitches and Mediwizards looked at each other, but after a few seconds of hesitation, they all started moving reluctantly towards the door. Ron just shook his head. He couldn't understand how people could be so stubbornly in denial about death.

Once everyone had left the room, he quickly closed the door and turned his attentions to the crying Mrs. Pritchett. At least it was better than the screams.

"It hurts," she moaned pitifully, tears running down her face. Ron had no doubt of that. The memo described how her damaged nerves were sending ceaseless 'pain' signals to her brain, similar to the Cruciatus Curse.

"I know, Mrs. Pritchett, I know. My name is Ron Weasley, I'm the Head of the Auror Office for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I need to ask you some questions about the Ministry attack," he explained.

She shuddered, and then howled as another wave of pain swept through her body. Ron winced, but when she forcefully bit down on her screams, he was reminded once again of what true bravery looked like.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" she asked in a trembling voice. "The healers won't tell me. They just keep telling me it will be alright."

"You're not going to be alright," Ron said slowly, gently. He figured that the very least he could give to this woman was the truth. "And it's almost certain that you're going to die."

The poor woman looked stricken, as if knowing that he was speaking the truth, but not willing to believe it.

"But," Ron continued, his voice getting thick, "We're all going to die at some point. Death is just the next step of our journey, and one that we all must take. You'll get to see your family, your friends…" he trailed off at this point, noticing the silent tears running down her cheeks.

Instinctively, he swooped down and hugged her. She responded by grasping onto him as if he were her last link this life.

However, the moment didn't last long, because soon another tremor wracked its way through her body, causing her to release her hold and flail madly in an attempt to stop the pain.

Once the fit subsided, she looked at Ron, and quietly said, "Thank you."

Ron nodded, and responded, "Of course. Now, I know you're in pain, but I have to ask you some questions. Your information might be the key that'll help me catch the son of a bitch who did this to you."

Her gaze hardened at his words, and the flickering light in her eyes that had been slowly puttering out suddenly surged in renewed strength.

"I might be able to help you. I saw the bastard," she said harshly. "He was a tall white man, with black hair and glasses. The worst part of it all, though, was the laughter. He never stopped cackling. He just kept laughing and laughing while everything _burned._" She started coughing terribly, and when she pulled her hand away from her mouth, it was coated with specks of blood.

"Did you recognize him, by any chance? Did he say anything?" asked Ron hurriedly. This was it! This was the break in the case!

It took Mrs. Pritchett a few more moments to collect herself, but when she did, she croaked out "No. I was too far away to really see his face. And he never said a word, other than the curses he shouted out."

"Do you remember what curses he used?"

She managed a garbled laugh before choking out "What curses _didn't _he use? I'll tell you one thing – he didn't_ need_ to use the Fiendfyre. He had already killed all of the guards and disarmed everyone else. I managed to escape right as the last guard was killed, so I didn't see him set off the spell, but I was close enough to feel it. It ate through the walls in seconds."

This was crucial information. Ron couldn't believe his luck – he had actually found a person who had witnessed the event until almost the very end.

"When you were first taken into St. Mungo's you kept screaming about 'The Demon.' What was that about?" Ron asked.

"Because it's what he is. A demon. There's no other explanation for it. Nothing _human _could be that monstrous," she shivered again, as if she were cold, before erupting into screams. Ron jumped, startled, and nearly hexed Mediwizard Hodgens as he came rushing through the door.

"You see what you did?" he roared angrily at Ron. "Her life support systems are reporting a total internal collapse!"

Ron looked at Mrs. Pritchett in confusion, his mind catching up to the fact that she was now convulsing uncontrollably on the bed, froth pouring from her mouth. His chest felt hollow, empty, as he realized that Hodgens was probably right. The strain of talking to him had robbed her of her lingering dregs of energy. She was dying.

He sat woodenly as Mediwitches and Mediwizards rushed all around him, desperately trying to stabilize her.

His guilt was a violent thing, shredding through his gut with razor sharp teeth. He doubled over, and as his shoulder's hunched, he felt the responsibility of Mrs. Pritchett's death rest squarely between them.

Her incoherent shrieks and cries suddenly coalesced and formed into two words, screamed repeatedly, over and over, so loudly that the entire Fourth Floor could hear. Her final message was a simple one.

"_FIND HIM!"_

A few minutes later, the buzz of movement in the room finally ceased.

She was dead.

Ron couldn't remember walking out of the hospital. All he could remember was stumbling into the office, his face as white as a ghost's, and sitting down at his desk. Many of his fellow aurors called out to him in greeting or concern, but he ignored them all. He sat there, slumped over his desk, the door shut and locked, and allowed himself the blissful opportunity to do nothing. He just sat.

However, as much as he might like to distance himself from what had just happened, he knew that he had to make an official report before he left.

Mechanically, he withdrew a quill and parchment from his desk and started to write, the quill flying over the paper as if by its own volition. His mind was blank, but somehow, the words found themselves on the page, one after the other, in perfect order.

After about twenty minutes of furious, mindless scribbling, Ron stood up and cracked his knuckles to loosen the knots. Ink splattered his hand, but he couldn't care less. The report was done. It was a flawless account of his interview and the information he had garnered from Mrs. Pritchett. He made three copies. One, he kept to himself. The second, he sent to his wife's secretary in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement via an orange memo. The third, he sent to Minister Shacklebolt's secretary, also via an orange memo.

However, as he went to make his way to the floo, he was forced to acknowledge the endlessly repeating words that had echoed in his head since Mrs. Pritchett had uttered them. He was forced to acknowledge that they were real, and not a figment of his imagination.

'_With black hair and glasses… with black hair and glasses… black hair and glasses…'_

He tossed a handful of floo powder into the grate and flooed back to his home. His wife wasn't there yet, so he sat down in his faithful red armchair by the fire and wrestled with his thoughts.

When she finally got back, Hermione only needed to take one look at him to realize that something was wrong.

So, after hugging her and drinking a hastily summoned cup of tea, he told her everything that had happened with Mrs. Pritchett. But, more importantly, he told her what was truly shaking him up on the inside.

"Hermione, she was in a lot of pain, but she was sure about what she saw. She said she saw a 'tall white man, with black hair and glasses.'"

"But Ron, how could you possibly know that what she saw was accurate?" questioned Hermione, ever the voice of reason. "Her mind was probably addled with pain, and you don't know how reliable her memory is. Besides, there are plenty of men with black hair and glasses; it doesn't mean it was the ghost of our long-dead friend."

Ron nodded, having already thought of all of those points himself. But still, he knew it in his gut that Harry Potter had something to do with this.

"It can't be a coincidence, Hermione," stated Ron with relative surety. "I've been thinking about that night more and more. What if Harry didn't kill himself? What if he was under the Imperius Curse?"

"You know as well as I do that Harry could throw off an Imperius Curse from Voldemort himself," said Hermione with conviction. "It was why the possibility was rejected as a possible cause of death."

"Alright, then, well maybe he was being controlled by some other means!" argued Ron, not willing to back down. "I mean, think about it. It could have been a potion, or a ritual, or a curse, or blackmail, or something else altogether. But the point is that there could have been someone who _made _Harry start that fire, the same someone who has been setting all of these other fires."

"That's a lot of guesswork," said Hermione pointedly, but she nevertheless looked less certain than before. Ron could practically see it on her face, her mind connecting the same dots that he had connected earlier.

"I know, but somehow, it feels right. Something tells me that the answer to all of this has to do with that night," explained Ron.

Hermione was silent for a few moments, before asking, "If your theory is correct, why is this person masquerading as Harry?"

It was a good question. "I dunno, Hermione. Maybe some sort of fixation? Maybe as a way of honoring his first kill? Maybe because he knows that it would terrify and demoralize the public to have Harry Potter's face attached to these crimes?" Ron guessed out loud.

His wife allowed him to air his thoughts openly, without judgment, and merely responded "Each theory is as valid as the last. It's only been five days since the attack and you've made enormous progress on the case. You're being too hard on yourself."

Ron was well aware of that fact. "Considering that I just saw a woman die today, I think I'm allowed to be a bit self-critical," he snarled defensively, and immediately regretted it. "Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -"

"No," Hermione said softly, "I know you didn't. As you said, you just saw a woman die today. It just shows me how brave you are that you're managing this well."

She hugged him, and he couldn't help but compare it to Mrs. Pritchett's hug. Where hers had been hard, frantic, and desperate, Hermione's was soft, warm, and soothing. He pulled away, his nerves calmed and his thoughts finally clear.

"What should I do?" Ron asked hesitantly. "I mean, if it comes to light that Harry died because of foul play, the Ministry would be totally discredited. After all, how can they explain that there was no investigation? We assumed that Harry killed himself, so it was swept under the rug. If it came out that Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, had been _murdered…_" he stopped abruptly, realizing what he was saying. A new wave of guilt swept through his already burdened mind as his words caught up with him.

"Merlin, Hermione… what if Harry was murdered!" he exclaimed.

Hermione looked horrified as she realized the implications. "Oh my… Ron, if that was true, I don't know what I'd do. We were his best friends, and we just assumed… Just assumed that he had willingly set the fire. If he hadn't… And if we let his murderer walk free for so long…"

Ron realized in that singularly awful moment that he now knew what Remus had felt like when he learned that Sirius had rotted in Azkaban for 12 years for a crime he did not commit.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, sharing in their leaden culpability.

"Hermione…"

"Ron…"

"Hermione! Ron! Anybody home?" shouted a voice that quickly materialized in the fire. Ginny was calling for dinner.

"Yes, sorry, we're here!" said Hermione, being the quicker of the two to recover her wits.

"Excellent! Dinner is almost ready. Now Rose and Hugo are coming over as well, right?" Ginny's head asked, oblivious to the tension in the room.

"Yeah," said Ron, "They're just upstairs. We'll get them down and be over right away."

"Alright, see you soon!" Ginny said, her head retreating from the fireplace with a small _pop._

Ron and Hermione looked at each other once more.

"Hermione, what are we going to tell Ginny? It was wrong of us to keep her in the dark in the first place, and now that we know -"

"We'll tell her nothing," Hermione said abruptly, "because we know nothing. All you have are theories. The last thing we need is to involve her in this mess. She's finally coped with Harry's death, we don't need to upset her again."

Ron looked uncomfortable, but nodded his assent. "Shall I go get the children?" he asked, already standing up.

"No, I'll get them. Although Merlin knows why Ginny wants them over in the first place. Rose, Hugo and Albus have never gotten along," Hermione said, muttering and stomping her way up the stairs. Ron just smiled. Hermione had always taken it rather personally that Albus had never shown a liking to either Rose or Hugo. He just shrugged it off. Kids will be kids, after all.

A few minutes later, two redheaded blurs raced down the stairs and charged into him, almost knocking him off his feet.

"Dad! We haven't seen you in _ages_," said Rose, hugging him tightly around his waist.

"That's not true! We just saw him yesterday!" argued Hugo, who quickly jostled her over to get a better stranglehold on Ron's midsection.

"Yeah, but yesterday was _ages _ago," whined Rose.

"Need! Air!" Ron gasped playfully. Rose and Hugo both let go, and he took the opportunity to muss up both of their heads.

"Daaaddd! I just brushed my hair!" cried out Rose, patting it back down self-consciously.

Hugo, on the other hand, simply grinned and attempted to jump up and reach his dad's hair. The two of them jumped around for a while, each trying to mess up the other's hair even more, while Rose and Hermione shared an exasperated look at their antics.

"C'mon, Ronald! Ginny is waiting for us," reminded Hermione.

Hugo groaned. "I like Aunt Ginny, but will Albus be there?"

Rose echoed his sentiment. "He's such a snob! He always goes on about how he's 'the Potter heir' and all that rot," she said churlishly.

Ron and Hermione shared another tired look. They knew that Ginny was a little…misguided when it came to Harry Potter. Her constant adulation caused Albus to develop a form of hero-worship for his father that translated into an unhealthy preoccupation with ancestry and tradition. They had tried to talk to Ginny to convince her to put a stop to it, but she wouldn't hear of it. Ron secretly thought that she was just as proud of Albus for being the last Potter as he was.

"Now now, kids, be nice," attempted Ron, seeing that his wife wasn't going to say anything. "He may be a little different from you, but he's your cousin. He's family. You should love him no matter what."

Rose and Hugo looked suitably abashed.

"Alright dad, I'll be nice if he is," allowed Rose, kicking invisible dirt off of her shoe. Hugo nodded his agreement.

Ron sighed, knowing it was the best he would get. He brought out the pot of floo powder and tossed some into the fire, shouting "Godric's Hollow!"

He spun through the floo and stumbled out into the living room.

Rose was right behind him.

"Ron! Rose! Perfect, you're just in time!" said Ginny cheerfully, walking out from the kitchen. Albus also walked out with her, looking uncomfortable.

Hugo was next, and he tumbled ungracefully out of the floo, falling onto the floor with a loud _THUMP. _

They heard a hacking sound, and turned to see Albus coughing with his hand over his mouth. Ron frowned when he saw the glimmer of mirth quickly hidden behind his eyes. It was unsettling to see someone who looked so much like Harry act so differently.

Hermione came through next, almost tripping over Hugo, who still lay in front of the mantle. Wordlessly, Hermione hoisted him back to his feet, and a quick _"Scourgify!" _cleaned off all the ash from his robes.

"Hermione! Hugo! Great, everyone is here," said Ginny delightedly. "Albus, say hello to Rose and Hugo!"

"Hello Rose, hello Hugo," he said, his voice irreproachably polite.

"Hullo," repeatedly Rose dutifully, while Hugo merely gave an indecipherable noise of greeting.

"You two, give your Aunt Ginny a hug!" Ginny said warmly, untying her apron and tossing it onto the counter. She held out her arms expectantly, and Rose and Hugo happily ran up to her and hugged her.

"Nice to see you again, Albus," said Ron, holding out his hand to shake. He felt awkward shaking hands with an eleven year old, but he knew Albus well enough to know that he enjoyed such formal gestures.

Sure enough, Albus' eyes lit up, and he responded with a perfectly executed handshake. "You too, Uncle Ron. And you, Aunt Hermione," he said, taking Hermione's hand and kissing it delicately on her knuckles.

Ron heard retching noises behind him, and turned to see Hugo making disgusting faces to a delighted Rose.

"Hugo, enough!" Ron reprimanded, trying to mediate the situation. He couldn't help but notice that Albus' face was contorted with suppressed anger. "Apologies, Albus. They haven't quite learned their manners. Still, there's no need to be so formal. After all, we're all family here."

His auror training allowed him to observe the subtle shift in Albus' face from anger to resignation. "Of course, Uncle Ron," Albus allowed. "You're right. We're family, and family is everything."

Ron was about to respond that that wasn't _quite _what he meant when Ginny started ushering them into the kitchen.

Ron barely suppressed a sigh. Something told him that this was going to be a very long dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 19th, 2017**

James was tired. Not the 'I just stayed up all night' type of tired, but the 'I just spent the last thirteen days with no food trying to escape a closet' type of tired.

His arms were so sore that he could barely lift them up off the ground. The shoe idea had been a colossal failure, and he had abandoned it three days ago. Or at least, what he thought was three days ago. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness with alarming frequency, and so had little confidence in his perception of time.

James stared intently at the door.

The shoes had done absolutely nothing other than wear out his arms and consume the last remaining dregs of his strength. It was infuriating. The force from the shoe was simply not enough to cause any significant damage to the door, even when he animated them to hit the door repeatedly at great speed. Of course, there was that niggling voice in the back of his mind that wondered if by animating the shoes, he had prevented them from ever being able to affect the magically warded door.

So he had turned back to his nails, the only method that had made any noticeable difference Staring at the door, James admired the thick, heavy grooves that he had managed to gouge into it.

His process had been simple. He healed, strengthened, and enlarged his nails until they were miniature claws, and then started scratching at the door. At first, they would have no effect, but eventually, they would start tearing and bleeding and leave marks on the door. He assumed that the lingering magic of his enchantments needed to fade enough so as to not activate the wards, and only then could they cause damage. Transfiguring them never seemed to work, so he stuck with enchanting them.

He had repeated this process over and over, wearing his nails down to bloody stubs, and had a heavily marked door to show for it.

But still, it wasn't enough. He knew that he was fading, and his survival instinct was rearing its head in full force. He had tried calling to Kreacher, but the house-elf had yet to appear. Either his dad had warded the room to prevent house-elf apparition or he had ordered Kreacher to not help him under any circumstances, and both possibilities were equally as likely and equally as dangerous.

James felt a cramp in his stomach, followed by another wave of fatigue.

He had to get out, and soon.

The annoying voice in the back of his mind whispered incessantly that there was something he was missing. Of course, he understood that the brain needed food as much as every other part of the body, and so his was likely not functioning at full capacity. In fact, he had noticed his body slowly shutting down all of the processes it deemed unnecessary in order to conserve energy.

He felt like he was drifting listlessly in a fog, with the hope of escape his one guiding beacon.

Everything felt warped, sluggish, and he had to actively focus in order to force his body to comply with his wishes.

He continued to stare at the door.

What was he missing? He forced himself to evaluate his methods. The transfigured axe hadn't worked, and neither had the animated shoes. Yet somehow, his enchanted nails had worked. Only, they never worked initially, and they didn't work if they were transfigured. Why?

His mind mulled through the puzzle. He felt another spike of anger, although it was quickly subdued. Strong emotions were almost as tiring as physical exertion. Still, the lingering frustration remained. He knew that if his brain was working properly, he would have already figured it out. He wished that he had taken the proper steps and experimented enough earlier on so he could have had all of the pieces of the riddle before his mind started fading.

But, he hadn't, and so he had to figure it out now. He did not think that he could break through the door using his nails before he died. It was a simple fact.

James was not afraid of death. All of the life-or-death training his father had put him through had long since cured him of that fear. Sure, he didn't w_ant _to die, especially not like this, but he wasn't one to baulk at the idea. He knew it was unfair for a twelve year old to have such first-hand experience with death, but it was a simple fact of his life.

He shook his head. He was getting distracted again.

Another wave of nausea hit him so strongly that he actually dry heaved for several minutes. Of course, there was nothing in his stomach left to cough up, but the sensation was still incredibly unpleasant. James felt his eyes sting, but no tears came out.

He was running on fumes.

_Focus! _He told himself. _Focus!_

What was he missing?

James stared blankly at the bloody, furrowed door. He rubbed his fingers together lightly, absently noting the swollen scar tissue all around them. His healing spells had gotten progressively less powerful, and so his fingers had stopped healing fully. If he managed to survive, he would almost certainly have a new set of scars. In all honesty, he was amazed that so much blood had come out of such small appendages. They had long since gone numb, and he had to consider –

Wait a second. Blood. Bloody fingernails. Blood!

James sat gobsmacked for a few moments, unable to comprehend the fact that he had just figured it out.

It was so simple, too simple, it couldn't be…

Using his last reserves of energy, he forced himself to stand up. His legs trembled, and his head spun dangerously, but he held onto consciousness by sheer determination.

He conjured a mouse.

Another wave of lethargy swept through him painfully. His legs buckled, but he leaned his body against the wall so as to better distribute his weight. The cold surface of the wood gave him an unexpected burst of clarity.

He transfigured the mouse into an axe.

The world tilted, and this time, he did collapse. He started dry heaving again, except this time, little globules of blood spattered the floor. James stared at the ground, his mind a mass of buzzing white noise, until the world righted itself once more.

He stayed sitting down, every inch of his slumped body aching in protest.

He grabbed the axe, and used the sharp point of one side to pierce his arm at the crease of his elbow. A lazy rivulet of gelatinous blood started oozing down his arm, and he liberally coated both sides of the axe with it.

This was it. The final moment.

James waved his wand, incanting the spell to animate the axe into bashing itself against the door. As the words flowed from his mouth, he felt his eyes flutter closed.

Peace. Silence. Bliss.

He floated, and his mind scattered into a thousand different directions. There was no pain, no worry, only emptiness. It would be so simple, so easy, to just drift off…

_**CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! **_

James opened his eyes.

_**CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! SPLITTTTT!**_

It took his mind a few seconds to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. The blood-coated axe had broken through the door.

It continued its assault, breaking off larger and larger pieces of wood each time its wicked, bloody edge collided with the obstruction.

In moments, the hole was big enough for James to walk through.

He couldn't believe it. He was free.

Free!

He canceled the spell and managed to hoist his quaking body up to a standing position, using the broken door for support. Deep splinters lodged themselves into his hands, but he could hardly feel them. Exultant, James took a quivering step, then another, and then finally, stepped above the wrecked door and into the living room.

He was free!

"MASTER JAMES!" yelled Kreacher, careening into the room like a mad bludger.

"Kreacher…" James uttered, his voice a pathetic tremor. He crumbled onto the ground in a heap.

Kreacher apparated away, reappearing instantly with a basket filled with potions. "Here, yous drink think! Drink it now, quickly!" said Kreacher, thrusting a vivid red phial under his nose that he vaguely recognized as a blood replenisher. James grabbed it and chugged it without complaint.

"And now this one!" ordered Kreacher, his weathered hands shaking as much as James was, holding out a draft that helped with magical exhaustion.

James drank that one, and then the next one, and soon, he became aware of the fact that he was no longer shivering. His body was still.

"A few more now, Master James," croaked Kreacher gently. He handed him three vials of potion, each a disgusting brown color that James had to choke down due to their putrid taste. Nutrition potions were always nasty.

Still, that was a good sign. If he was noticing taste, it meant that his bodily faculties were returning.

"Here, this is the last one," Kreacher rasped out, giving him a merry yellow concoction that smelt surprisingly fruity. James didn't recognize it, but swallowed it and felt a noticeable surge in energy rush from his head all the way down to his toes.

"Are yous feeling better, Master James?" Kreacher asked in as soft of a voice as the haggard old elf was capable of.

James was silent, and Kreacher wrung his hands frantically together in nervous anxiety. Finally, he sighed and replied, "I think so. Give me a moment."

What a pair the two of them made. Kreacher, the house-elf obsessed with blood purity, looking anxiously after the welfare of his half-blood master, who was still sprawling on the floor.

James groaned, and realized that he was indeed feeling better. After so many days of lethargy and pain, it felt odd to feel 'normal' again.

Gingerly, he stood up, noting that his muscles were much more responsive and cooperative. He noticed the splinters in his hands and cast an _"Accio!" _that yanked them all out. Kreacher winced, but James barely felt it.

"_Medire," _he said softly, watching the cuts and gashes heal over. He could cast spells again. This was a very good sign.

"I think I'm better now Kreacher. Thank you, you might have just saved my life," James said genuinely. He thought that Kreacher looked a little teary-eyed at his gratefulness, but it might have just been his imagination.

"Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black," was Kreacher's stilted response.

Impulsively, he bent down and hugged the dirty, wrinkled, decrepit old elf, ignoring the ghastly smell of his soiled pillowcase.

Kreacher stood there stiffly, clearly not knowing how to respond.

He ended the hug, not wanting to prolong Kreacher's blatant discomfort. "I think I'm going to go to bed. Do you think you could bring me up some soup?" James asked.

Kreacher bowed down until his nose touched the floor, and gravely replied, "Of course, Master James," before turning around and apparating away with a small _pop. _

He smiled, understanding that Kreacher would never be comfortable with affection. His smile turned into a small frown when he realized that he had no idea where his father was.

It seemed incredible that only minutes earlier, he had been on the brink of death. Healing potions truly were amazing. His father, however, seemed to sincerely not care whether he lived or died. If he had, he would have let James out earlier, or at the very least, been waiting anxiously for him to get out.

James didn't quite know how to feel about that, and so decided to not feel anything at all.

Sleep, he decided. He needed sleep.

He climbed up the stairs, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the steps in front of him. Still, he felt the gazes of the heads on the back of his neck, and could not help but catch a glimpse or two out of his peripheral vision.

He had to do something about his father.

But not now. No, right now he needed sleep. And food.

He walked to his door and pushed it open, rejoicing in its spotless cleanliness. Kreacher was forbidden from cleaning, so James was almost obsessive in keeping his room as clean as possible. He knew that his father almost never came in here, and so there was little risk of him getting mad about it.

James looked at his bed longingly, before grudgingly turning around and slipping off his bloody clothes and casting a quick _"Scourgify!"_ on his body. He slid into a pair of clean pajamas, and re-cast the cleaning spell on his mouth. Once he deemed himself hygienic, he stumbled his way to his bed and allowed himself to be swallowed by its softness. His eyes grew heavy, but a soft _pop _reminded him that he needed to eat.

"Kreacher has brought master soup," Kreacher grumbled. James knew that the elf's sour mood was a response to his confusion about the hug, and so thought nothing of it.

"Thank you Kreacher," said James, carefully elevating himself to a sitting position and picking the bowl up from the proffered tray.

It didn't look all that appetizing. It was a thin, watery tomato soup, but he knew that his stomach couldn't take much more right now. The potions might have given him nutrition, but he needed to re-accustom himself to real food.

"Is Master James needing anything else?" asked Kreacher formally.

"No, that's it, thank you again," said James, who blew tentatively on a spoonful of the steaming soup.

Kreacher left with another faint _pop._

As he consumed his first morsel of food in almost two weeks, he couldn't hold back the groan that ripped through him. It wasn't so much that it tasted good as it was that it was food. _Actual _food.

As James sat there, slurping his soup, he couldn't help but feel like the whole thing had been rather anticlimactic. He wondered what it must be like for muggles, who didn't have healing potions and house elves and for whom starvation took weeks to overcome. Near death situations almost never led to death in the wizarding world, and so had the tendency to lose their edge.

The only things that could really exhilarate him anymore were quidditch, dark magic, and dueling. Even when he had been dying, he had not been afraid, he had not panicked. He wanted to survive, he was a survivor, but he was a survivor without fear. He simply couldn't muster any fear for things that would terrify anybody, much less a twelve year old boy. Fear was useless. Fear could get you killed.

The spoon clattered against the bottom of the now empty bowl.

The small bowl of soup had left him feeling uncomfortably full. He mentally cursed his father once again. Where was he? Was he honestly going to let him die in there? Had he even come home?

James looked at the bowl of soup, and realized with a start that Kreacher had served it to him, directly. That must mean that his father had allowed Kreacher to serve real food again, which meant that his father had been home. Since he had allowed real food, James hoped that his father was currently relatively sane. But, if he was sane, shouldn't he have let him out of the cupboard?

His mind swirled with the possibilities, his eyelids slipping closed. He had enough presence of mind to put his bowl onto the table and slide under the covers before he felt his exhaustion overtake him

James was unconscious within seconds.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 20th, 2017**

Harry awoke with a groan and absently reached his hand up to scratch his head. A curious, low buzzing noise filled his ears. When he pulled back his hand and blearily opened his eyes, he realized that it was covered with hundreds of bugs.

He quickly became aware of the thousands if not millions of bugs crawling all over him. Beetles, worms, ants, roaches… it looked like the entire insect kingdom had decided to have a party on his bed with the chicken bodies as the guests of honor. A horde of flies was hovering above him, accounting for the buzzing noise.

Harry was mildly annoyed.

He reached his hand over to fetch his wand from its position on his bedside countertop.

_Glacio Flamare! _he thought, feeling the familiar tingle of the flame freezing charm run throughout his body.

"_Inflamara Maximus!" _he called out with a vicious jab of his wand.

With a loud _whoosh, _a fireball consumed the bed and most of the room, immolating the bugs, the flies, the infested chicken bodies, his clothes, and the bed to cinders. Harry fell to the ashy ground with a thump.

He slowly stood up, completely naked, and rubbed his aching backside. It wasn't a pleasant wake-up call, but he'd had worse.

There was still a faint buzzing in the air, and he turned his attentions to the body in the corner of the room. The sheet he had laid on top of it was wriggling, likely due to the colonies of bugs that had taken up residence in the decaying corpse. The stench was absolutely rancid.

He frowned. That many bugs shouldn't have come so quickly. It would take several days for so many to accumulate, and the smell from the corpse shouldn't be that strong yet.

Confusion. He hated confusion. But, it had been a frequent mental state of his for some time now.

"Kreacher!" Harry called out sharply. The elf appeared instantaneously.

"Master Harry called, sir?" croaked out the elf, his nose wrinkling in displeasure. Harry could only speculate as to what part of the room induced his displeasure. Was it the body in the corner? The flies? The stench? His nudity? The fact that half of the room was a despondent pile of cinders?

"What day is it?" Harry asked curtly, wordlessly casting an _Evanesco!_ on the ashes.

"Today is August 20th, 2017," Kreacher responded.

That explained it. He had been asleep for six days.

"Right," Harry said blandly. "Well I'm hungry. Bring me some food."

Kreacher left with a _pop._

Six days. That was the longest stretch of time he had ever slept in one go. He supposed that his sleep deprivation and magical exertion had taken more of a toll than he realized.

He once again observed the corpse in the corner. More than likely, her face and head would be beyond recognition, making her unsuitable as a trophy. With a sigh, he sent another _"Inflamara Maximus!" _to that side of the room, burning everything into a nice crisp.

Kreacher returned with platter laden with steak and potatoes. Harry instantly refocused his attention to the plate of food, and dug in hungrily. There was no silverware, but Harry never used silverware anymore. His hands were soon covered with grease and mashed potatoes as he ravenously consumed everything on the plate.

As he swallowed the last bite, Harry sighed contentedly.

"Thanks Kreacher, you can go now," Harry allowed generously.

Kreacher nodded and disapparated with a _pop._

Harry surveyed the room for a final time. The only piece of furniture he had left was a wooden wardrobe shoved into the far corner of the room. He quickly vanished the rest of the ash, and summoned two pairs of old robes out of the wardrobe.

One pair, he put on, vaguely registering that they smelt rather stale. Still, he didn't particularly feel like running around starkers.

The other pair, he transfigured into a new bed and bedside table. It took a little extra effort, but he was able to make the transfiguration permanent.

There, all better. The room was bare, but now it looked relatively normal.

Satisfied, Harry opened his door and made his way downstairs. Dust and grime coated every surface except for his spectacularly gleaming trophies. He made sure that they were cleaned frequently.

Indeed, as he passed, he cast a silent _Scourgify! _to remove any new dust particles that might have accumulated. They truly looked magnificent.

He reached downstairs, and the first thing he noticed was the wreckage of the cupboard door. Why was the cupboard door busted open?

Oh yes, he remembered. He had locked James in there. Looks like he got out.

Harry felt a little guilty. He didn't know that he was going to sleep for so long, and it could have been very dangerous for James if he had slept any longer. But still, it looked like his son had managed just fine without him. He nodded. Yes, there was no reason to coddle the boy.

Vaguely, he wondered how long ago that James had gotten out, and what method he had used. Perhaps he ought to praise the boy. After all, the wards _were _difficult, and James had managed to break through them on his own.

Harry smiled. Yes, he would do just that. James deserved something for his accomplishment.

What should he get him? A new book?

Yes, James loved books, especially dark arts books. He was a good father, and allowed his son to explore anything that caught his interest. He provided what he could for his son, and gave him the knowledge and training that he couldn't get at Hogwarts. James was very strong, and very powerful, and it was in part due to his tutelage. Harry Potter might have scraped by in life through sheer dumb luck, but his son would be powerful enough to defeat anyone who stood in his way.

Harry felt an absurd surge of fondness that he bitterly forced back down. But the damage was done. Already, his mind was crying out for blood.

Angrily, Harry fled to the training room, maintaining his precarious control until it finally snapped the moment he stepped through the door.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _The killing curse.

"_Explotum!"_ The explosion curse.

"_Cruxis!"_ The pain curse.

"_Confringo!"_ The fire hex.

"_Imperio!"_ The mind-control curse.

"_Ossicur!"_ The bone-breaking curse.

"_Travius!"_ The splitting curse.

"_Crucio!"_ The torture curse.

"_Rupturatus!"_ The rupturing curse.

"_Scoria!"_ The skinning curse.

"_Incendio!"_ The fire jinx.

"_Dolerus Funara!"_ The burial curse.

"_Inflamara!"_ The fire curse.

"_Fissurla!" _The fissuring curse.

"_Cruciare Inflamara!"_ The painful fire curse.

"_Lasseraxus!"_ The laceration curse.

"_Aegratis!" _The corruption curse.

"_Sectumsempra!" _The slashing curse.

Harry spat out dark magic from his wand in a furious blur, his mind cataloguing every spell in an attempt to restore order.

This mental and magical exercise was the only thing that ever helped curb the edge of his insanity.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ he yelled, delighting in the sickly green light that splashed harmlessly against the wall. _"Crucio! Crucio! Dolerus Funara! Travius! Sectumsempra! Avada Kedavra!"_

He wanted more. He wanted screams.

"_Crucio! Confringo! Fissurla! Crucio! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Imperio! Aegratis!"_

It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough!

"Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" he screamed madly, flailing around, heedless of where his spells were going. In his mind, he saw bodies everywhere, and they were all screaming with him, screaming screaming screaming screaming.

He laughed, exhilarated.

"Avada Kedavra!" he gasped out through his cackles. "Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"

The entire room was bathed in green. Death was everywhere. Everything was dead. Time for the finale!

"_FIENDFYRE!" _Harry roared, his blood rushing through his ears.

Monstrous, flaming creatures surged out of his wand, their mad cries harmonizing with his own discordant soul.

Dragons, hellhounds, snakes, mad beasts of myth and legend, they shrieked and bayed and found purpose in the goal that formed their existence – to destroy. The whirled, angry at being denied flesh and blood, and turned on their master.

But his bloodlust was sated, and he dispelled them once they came too close.

He stood there panting, sweat beading on his forehead. His control had returned. For now.

Harry swept out of the room, intent on talking to James while he had some semblance of his sanity. His first stop was the Black library, but after pacing through the aisles, Harry was forced to conclude that his son wasn't there.

His room, then. Harry trudged up the stairs, barely looking at his trophies, and stopped in front of James' room. He paused, uncertain of whether he should go in or not. He hated this room. It brought back too many memories, too many emotions. He knocked tentatively, hoping that James would come out, but there was no response. Steadying his emotions, he strengthened his resolve and pushed his way inside.

James was asleep. Harry checked his watch, and noted that it was 2 in the afternoon. That wouldn't do at all.

"_Aguamenti!"_ Harry called out, sending a jet of ice-cold water onto his son's sleeping form.

Harry lazily dodged the _"Reducto!"_ that was immediately hurled his way, and watched with muted pride as his son rolled out of the bed and into a perfect dueling stance within seconds.

Harry held up his hands in mock surrender, allowing James a moment to gather his wits. James seemed to catch on to what had happened fairly quickly, and lowered his wand.

"What did you do that for?" James asked grumpily. "How long was I even asleep?"

Harry shrugged.

"Kreacher!" James called out, applying the drying spell _"Exhaura!"_ to his pajamas and bed.

"Yes, Master James?" asked Kreacher, appearing by his side instantly.

"How long have I been sleeping?" he asked, making his way to his dresser and pulling out a pair of fresh robes. He cast a quick switching spell, and folded his pajamas neatly into the dresser.

"Yous went to sleep yesterday, August 19th, at 7pm. So if yous just woke up, yous been asleep for nineteen hours," Kreacher replied.

James nodded, as if expecting this answer. "Can you bring me some food?" he asked when his stomach started to grumble. Harry heard it from across the room.

"Yes Master James," Kreacher said with a small bow before disapparating.

Father and son looked at each other, both of their faces utterly blank.

"So," Harry began, "when did you get out of the cupboard?"

The slight tightening of James' jaw was the only outward sign he gave of his internal rage. "Well, since I fell asleep yesterday at 7pm, I'd have to estimate that I got out yesterday around 6:30pm."

More silence. Harry was too busy struggling with his thoughts and emotions to figure out what to say.

Finally, James added, "Not that you actually care."

"I do care," Harry responded reflexively.

"Yeah? Well then, where were you? I almost _died _dad!" James interrogated, allowing some of his anger to lace his words.

"I was sleeping," Harry responded lamely. But really, he didn't know what else to say.

"You were _sleeping? _For six days?" said James incredulously.

"Yes," said Harry simply. "I was very tired."

A little bit of hot air seemed to deflate out of James' sails, but he still clenched his wand in a fiercely tight grip.

Kreacher _popped _back into the room, carrying a small bowl of chicken noodle soup and some applesauce, along with a handful of potions.

Harry took in the sight with some confusion. He noticed a while ago that his potions seemed to go missing every so often, but he had never cared about it or thought about it hard enough to realize where exactly they were going. It was curious.

"Thank you, Kreacher," said James, allowing Kreacher to disapparated once more.

"He's been the one taking my potions?" inquired Harry neutrally.

"Yes, under my orders," replied James, quickly uncorking each of the potions and swallowing them one after another.

"What makes you think you have that kind of authority?" asked Harry, the first note of warning appearing in his voice.

James seemed to notice it, because his posture stiffened and his grip on his wand intensified.

"I believe I have the authority to see to my health and safety when my father decides to have a week-long nap," said James with no small amount of sarcasm.

Harry's eyes flickered dangerously, and he started twirling his wand between his fingers. "I'm responsible for you. I wouldn't allow you to come to serious harm. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" James sneered, eating his soup with one hand while his wand remained clenched in the other. "You saw those potions, right? I assume you know what they are. I was hours, minutes, away from starving to death. The process was accelerated due to my magical exhaustion. Why was I magically exhausted, you might ask? Oh, I know why. Because you locked me in the cupboard and warded the way out!"

Harry resisted the urge to send a barrage of curses at his son. Ironically enough, it helped that he was angry. It was when he became sentimental that his control was _truly _tested.

"Well, you didn't die, and now you've learned a very valuable lesson," said Harry, ignoring the dark look James shot his way. "How did you break the wards, anyway?"

"Blood," James answered shortly, focusing his attentions on spooning the rest of the soup into his mouth

"Blood?" asked Harry, genuinely curious.

"Yeah. I coated an axe with my blood and chopped through the door," he summarized, turning his attentions to the applesauce.

Harry mused for a second. Yes, the solution certainly was creative, if a bit crude. He had tied the wards to his magical signature, which meant that his son, being of his blood, was able to use that blood to break through the wards. It wasn't what he had in mind, but he certainly couldn't fault James for his ingenuity.

"Well, good job son, I'm proud of you" Harry said stiffly. The lack of affection in his voice was blatant.

"Thanks," said James, his voice equally devoid of emotion.

"I want to give you something," said Harry awkwardly. "For succeeding, I mean. If you want, we can go to Knockturn Alley and you can pick out something you like."

His eyes lit up, and for the first time, he showed genuine positive emotions.

Harry resisted the urge to Crucio him.

"You mean it, dad?" asked James excitedly. "That'd be great!"

"Of course," Harry barked out, becoming more agitated by the second.

James seemed to notice his growing instability, and quickly sobered up. "Well, just let me know when we're heading out," he said cautiously.

"We can go now," said Harry, unwilling to admit to James or himself that he might not retain control for much longer.

"Alright, that's perfect. I mean, that is acceptable," James replied, attempting to remain passive.

Harry wondered how much his son knew or suspected about his condition. James was clearly aware that he reacted negatively to positive emotions, and seemed oddly considerate of that fact. When he started to feel proud about how observant and intelligent his son was, he felt his control waver dangerously.

"I still hate you," James injected darkly, "No matter how much you bribe me."

That seemed to work, and he felt his mind slowly start to settle down. For a moment, he wondered whether his son said that on purpose, but then decided that it'd be smarter not to analyze it. No, his son hated him.

And he barely tolerated James' presence, and that was _only _because he was his son, _nothing _more.

Yes, everything was normal.

"Let's get going then, you ungrateful little brat," he said with a sneer before sweeping out of the room.

James followed behind him wordlessly.

Harry walked down the stairs, taking note of how James refused to look at the heads mounted on the wall.

Good. He_ should_ be afraid.

Soon the two of them were exiting the front door of Grimmauld Place. James took a deep breath of air, reminding Harry that he had spent the past thirteen days in a locked cupboard.

He refused to feel guilty. He was teaching his son a lesson, nothing more.

Yes, just a lesson.

Harry pulled his hood over his head, and started casting a number of glamour charms on his person. A quick glance revealed that James was already doing the same without needing to be told.

He wasn't proud. James was just doing what was expected of him. Not proud at all.

Once the two of them were adequately disguised, Harry grabbed James' hand and apparated with a loud _CRACK!_

After being compressed through what felt like a very thin rubber hose, Harry and James appeared in the alleyway into Knockturn Alley with another loud _CRACK!_

A few of the lurking hags and beggars turned to see who had entered the alleyway, but quickly turned away. James might be a tad too short to pass as an adult, but the two of them radiated enough confidence and power that they were left alone.

Harry allowed James to take the lead, and followed behind him as his son stalked through the alley. He seemed to have a specific location in mind, because he didn't even glance at the other shops.

His son finally stopped at a small, dingy place called "Magical Creatures and Plants."

"You want to get a pet?" Harry asked with surprise.

"Not exactly," James replied ambiguously before making his way into the shop.

Harry followed him inside, and almost walked right back out. The place was filled with snakes, all of them hissing obscenities and death threats. He still retained his ability to speak Parseltongue, but rarely did that ever impact his life. The store filled with snakes was a brutal reminder of his past. He didn't like thinking about the past.

"Good evening sirs, is there something I can help you with?" said a simpering voice from the back of the shop. As the man walked forward from behind the curtain, Harry was immediately put on his guard. While his voice sounded submissive, his eyes screamed danger. He felt his son stiffen almost imperceptibly next to him.

So what? The brat had some survival instinct. Good for him.

"Yes, I'm looking to acquire a house-elf," James stated smoothly, affecting his voice so it came out a bit deeper than natural.

Harry couldn't hold back his surprise. "A house-elf? What's wrong with our current house-elf?"

"He's ancient," said James curtly. "Besides, he answers to you above me. I want an elf that's bound only to me."

He might be insane, but he was still able to read between the lines. James liked Kreacher, but needed an elf that could guarantee his safety within the house.

He felt a rush of self-loathing when he realized that James felt the need to be protected from his own father. Worse, he was probably right.

No, he wasn't right! He had never hurt him outside of their lessons. He would never hurt his son!

But still, a small part of him said, he couldn't deny that he was becoming more and more unstable. After all, this last incident had cut it a bit close.

Internally, Harry raged, but he said nothing more.

"Ahh, looking for a house-elf, eh? What makes you think we sell house-elves here?" said the man, his tone still sickeningly sweet.

"Don't play games with me," James ordered harshly. "We both know you do, so cut the act. I want the goods and I'll pay good money for them."

"Watch your mouth, short-stuff," growled the man, abandoning any pretense of kindness. "I don't take kindly to being talked down to by runts."

"_Crucio!"_ James yelled out, sending a thick red bolt that connected with the man who was far too surprised to try to dodge.

He fell to the ground screaming.

Harry felt a surge of disgust and an intense wave of satisfaction collide in his chest. He didn't know what to think, or what to feel. He was watching his son, his twelve year old son, torture a man right in front of him. But the man's screams were absolute music to his ears. It was incredible.

He fought down the urge to add his own Cruciatus curse to the mix, and watched as his son finally lifted the curse. The snakes were hissing violently, able to sense the dark magic laden in the air. The man lay panting and contorted on the ground, small tremors still wracking his body. The smell of urine wafted to Harry's nose, and he couldn't deny his revulsion. The man was weak, pathetic.

His son wasn't.

"You were saying something about selling me a house-elf?" James said with mock civility.

The man slowly struggled to his feet. His face was contorted into a rictus of fury, but his eyes never left James' wand. "They're 200 galleons each, and an extra 50 if you want me to do the bonding ritual," he finally spat out.

James nodded, looking contemplative beneath his hood. "How about you give me the elf for 150 galleons, do the bonding ritual for free, and in return, I don't torture you into insanity and burn down your shop?" James asked politely, as if he were discussing the weather.

The man's eyes bulged, and Harry could tell that he was going for his wand the second he started to do so.

Apparently, so could James.

"_Crucio!"_ he screamed again, sending a red bolt careening towards the man who attempted to dodge, but still could not manage it in time.

Again, the man went down, howling in pain. The snakes hissed in delight, basking in the heaviness of the wicked magic.

James held the spell until the man started convulsing hard enough to break his bones against the nearby table, and until the smell of shit permeated the room.

Harry forced himself to distance himself from the situation. He had never been so thoroughly tested while in his son's presence without the training room to flee to. Every single part of him screamed to join in torturing the man.

Somehow, he managed to calm himself with the thought that he might get to see the man tortured again soon enough.

"_Expelliarmus!" _James called out, causing the man's wand to fly out of his robes into James expectant hand.

The man seemed to be passed out on the ground.

"_Ennervate!" _James intoned, causing the man to gasp as he returned to consciousness.

"You were saying something about selling me a house-elf for 150 galleons?" James reminded him helpfully.

The man slowly wobbled to his feet. He no longer looked angry. Now, he looked absolutely terrified.

"Of course, sir. Right this way," he said, leading them into the back. Harry and James followed, and behind the curtain were cages upon cages of various magical creatures, each of them with various levels of sentience. He clearly saw a mermaid and a few centaurs, as well as what looked like a banshee, along with half a dozen or so house-elves.

"Here they are, sir. Feel free to examine them at your leisure," the man said, trying to hide the tremor in his voice

Harry internally smirked. A few Crucios were enough to change anybody's attitude.

James glanced at the cowering house-elves in the cages. There was one, however, that was not cowering. It was simply sitting on the floor of its cage, staring blankly at them through the bars.

"What's your name?" James asked the unique elf.

"Blinky, sir," was the elf's response. There was no emotion in its tone.

"I'll take him," James said, gesturing towards Blinky.

"Alright, one moment," said the man, fiddling with the keys on his key ring. He finally landed on one and shoved it into the lock, turning it until the cage door opened.

As soon as the cage was open, the elf was upon him, scratching and biting every surface he could reach.

"Oww! Geroff! Geroff! Get him off of me!" screamed the man as Blinky latched onto his neck.

James simply smiled, and Harry found himself echoing the sentiment.

"Blinky, if you move aside, my dad will happily kill him for you," James stated cheerfully. The mad elf looked at him distrustfully, but obediently let go.

Harry was surprised that he had been volunteered, but then remembered that his son couldn't cast the killing curse because he still felt too guilty to be able to actually kill anyone.

He didn't know whether to be proud or disappointed that his son wasn't a murderer.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ he intoned, sending a solid beam of green light at the man. It collided into his chest, and he slumped to the floor, dead.

"Now Blinky, if you'd like, I'd love it if you decided to be my house-elf," said James conversationally, as if they hadn't just killed a man.

Blinky looked at James owlishly before his face broke into a massive grin. "Ohh, Blinky would love to work for you! Yous a strong master! Yous free Blinky! But! But! But! Blinky wants to choose his own outfit," the elf said with determination.

"Done," James agreed simply.

"And Blinky wants to be able to wash it!"

"Done."

"And Blinky doesn't want to be ordered to have sex with master!"

James couldn't hide his surprise or revulsion, but quickly recovered with a firm, "Of course not. No sex."

Blinky jumped up and down, clapping his hands together happily. "Excellent, then I is more than happy to work for you!"

Blinky's actions couldn't help but remind him of a house-elf he had once known, long ago, back when it had been just him, Ron, and Hermione against the forces of darkness. Back when right was right and evil was evil, back when he could love. Dobby. Dobby had been loyal to the end, and had given his life to save his…

Harry felt his stomach lurch.

"Son, you need to get out of here! Right now!" Harry ordered, his mind fracturing as he spoke.

James looked surprised and merely stood there.

"GET OUT! NOW!"

Blinky seemed to sense the danger before James could, and quickly grabbed his arm and disapparated away.

It wasn't a moment too soon. Harry snapped, and soon, curses were spitting out of his wand left and right.

"_Aegratis!"_ he shouted, delighting in the stinking pustules and wounds that appeared on the skin of one of the nameless house elves. A _"Diffindo!"_ sliced its neck with an impressive spurt of blood.

"_Lasseraxus!"_ caused hundreds of shallow cuts to slice into another house-elf's skin, which he then finished off with a _"Sectumsempra!"_

The wails and screams were intoxicating. Blood was already pooling around his shoes, and he had barely even gotten started.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ he called out, killing one of the centaurs instantly_. "Explotum!"_ he shouted at the tank that held the mermaid, causing the glass to shatter and the mermaid to flop onto the ground. It started screaming and shrieking in a high-pitched, razor-sharp voice available only to mermaids. Harry loved it.

"_Crucio!"_ he whispered maliciously, savoring her screams as they became more and more frantic the longer he held the curse. He held it until her screams faded and her tail stopped thrashing against the floor. A "_Diffindo!" _chopped her head off and sent it flying into the air. He summoned it with a lazy _"Accio head!"_ and shrunk it before stuffing it into his robes.

"_Ossicur!"_ he yelled, hearing the sharp snap of a house-elf's leg breaking in half. He finished it off with a _"Travius!"_ that split open its chest, exposing its innards.

"_Cruxis!"_ he cried, hitting a second centaur. The thing neighed in pain until he ended its misery with a _"Scoria!"_ that tore its skin clean off.

He caved in a house-elf's head with a well-aimed _"Rupturatus!"_ that sent brain matter flying everywhere.

He downed the last centaur with a _"Fissurla!"_ that severed its spine, causing it to fall limply onto the ground.

Harry finally turned his gaze to the banshee. She was silenced, but she was clearly screaming at the top of her lungs, and he could see the sheer terror in her eyes. Wickedly, he intoned _"Dolerus Funara!" _and watched as she started convulsing.

5…4…3…2…1…

Her entire body exploded into millions of tiny little bits. The burial curse, ironically named in that afterwards, there was nothing left to bury.

All of the creatures were dead.

Harry made his way back to the front of the shop.

"_Reducto! Reducto! Reducto!"_ Harry shouted repeatedly, breaking all of the snake tanks. The hissing nearly overwhelmed him, but he shouted out in Parseltongue, **"All of you mussst fleeee! Bite anyoneee who seesss you! Fleeee!"**

He heard a chorus of **"Yessss masssterrr" **and watched as hundreds of snakes slithered through the front door and into the alley.

Now came the fun part.

"_Confringo! Inflamara! Incendio! Inflamara Maximus! Confringo! Incendio!"_ he shouted out, sending our fireballs and gushes of flame indiscriminately. The shop was slowly catching fire; the power of the spells overpowering the protection spells on the walls.

"_FIENDFYRE!"_ Harry screamed, feeling the last vestiges of madness finally abate.

The creatures came, and this time, they had something to feast on.

Harry somehow heard the sound of numerous CRACKS of apparition through the almost deafening howls of the monsters. As much as he wanted to stay and watch, he knew that it was time to leave.

Smiling, Harry severed the connection between him and the demonic fire, setting it free.

He turned and disapparated with a loud CRACK.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**A/N - Sorry to those who followed this story, but the most recent update was mostly to fix some formatting and grammar mistakes. I'm almost done with the next chapter, I promise!**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5  
**

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 22nd, 2017 - 11:35pm  
**

Albus smiled at the brightly shining light at the end of his wand.

"_Nox_," he whispered, and the light immediately went out.

"_Lumos_," again it lit up.

"_Nox_," and again it went out.

The room was still lit by his bedside lamp, despite the late hour at which he was practicing. He knew that brightly colored spells cast in a dark room would send light through the cracks in his door, posing a possible risk for getting caught. By having his light on, in the off chance that his mom happened to investigate his nighttime activities, he could always say that he was reading.

Albus was a_ just in case _type of kid, something he took great pride in. He had waited three days to start practicing magic, keeping a vigil every night, just in case his mom happened to get suspicious enough to check in on him. He had been brutally tired, but it had paid off, because on the third night his door had creaked open oh so softly, and after a minute or so, closed once again. He had passed the test, and he doubted his mom would think to check in again.

Still, he wasn't taking any chances.

He flipped through his charms textbook, which was strategically placed on his bed so as to be immediately seen by his mom if she happened to come in.

After skimming through page upon page of theory, he finally landed on the next spell, the levitation spell. Wingardium Leviosa.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he mouthed, "Wingardium Leviosa, Wingardium Leviosa, Wingardium Leviosa."

After satisfied that he had the pronunciation correct, he looked at the wand movement. Swish and flick. Wingardium on the swish, Leviosa on the flick.

He practiced the movement several times, repeatedly checking the diagram to make sure he had the angles and distances correct. Once he was sure he had it down, he decided to actually try casting the spell. The book said that beginners should use something small and light for their first time casting, so he grabbed the quill he kept next to his bed and placed it on top of his covers.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," he murmured. The quill twitched, but did not rise. He frowned, and checked the book once again to see if he had done something wrong. After a few minutes, he located the problem. The book said that proper visualization was important. You had to imagine the object levitating; you couldn't expect results just by saying the words with the proper wand movement.

He sat up straighter, and this time, visualized the quill floating into the air. "Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered. The quill immediately lifted off of the bed and hovered elegantly in the air.

Albus felt like cheering, but settled for a wide smile and a mock bow.

Oh no, please, no need to applaud, really, it was nothing. Well, okay, if you insist!

While he knew he was acting silly, he felt rather justified. He had successfully cast the spell on his second try, and the book said that it usually took an hour to master the spell. Obviously, he was talented.

At that thought, an almost vicious surge of satisfaction swept through him. He was _talented, _he wasn't some mediocre wizard. He could be great!

The elation that Albus felt was practically indescribable. He was warm all over, and had to shove his fist into his mouth to stop himself from laughing in pure joy. All of the doubts, insecurities, and fears that had plagued him for months were swept aside, leaving him floating on a wave of self-satisfied bliss.

Then he realized something, and his fit of jubilation came to a screeching halt. He had successfully cast it on his _second _try. There were probably tons of people who had cast it on their first try. Which meant that he wasn't the best. He was only _second _best.

Scowling, he cast it again, "_Wingardium Leviosa," _but the obediently levitating quill wasn't enough to restore his good mood. As the quill floated listlessly back down, he grabbed it out of the air and placed it back onto his bedside table, along with his wand.

He needed to do better.

Albus continued flipping through his charms textbook. The next spell had an entire chapter dedicated to it, and he soon realized why. The Incendio charm actually set objects on fire! Albus once again skimmed the pages, but soon grew frustrated. Page after page talked about proper visualization, and then after that, the proper safety precautions.

_**Fire created with the Incendio charm can be extinguished by the witch or wizard who produced it with proper visualization and determination - it does not need a specific counter spell. However, if the caster cannot extinguish it properly, it can also be put out with a magical water charm, Aguamenti. See Appendix III for a brief discussion of the Aguamenti charm.**_

Albus dutifully flipped to the back of the book and located Appendix III. At first, he thought there was some mistake. All he could see was a short little paragraph, with no wand movement diagrams or anything.

_**The Aguamenti charm is a highly advanced charm that is not typically taught until the later years of wizarding education. It requires the caster to conjure matter, which is an incredibly difficult practice that requires a deep understanding of conjuration and magical theory. The incantation is 'Aguamenti,' and the wand movement is a continuous counterclockwise circling motion.**_

He frowned at the page in confusion, and noticed that most of Appendix III contained short explanations for advanced spells he assumed were mentioned throughout the book. He wished that the book gave longer explanations. For instance, why was Aguamenti so much more difficult than Incendio? Shouldn't creating water be similar to creating fire?

He thought about it for a few minutes, rereading the uninformative paragraph. Finally, he realized the key sentence, '_**It requires the caster to conjure matter…' **_That was the reason. Fire is energy, whereas water is matter. It must be magically easier to create energy than it is to create matter.

Satisfied that he had figured it out, he flipped back to the section on Incendio. Once again, he was struck by the sheer amount of theory that was packed into the chapter. It had everything from the energy composition of fire (in something called 'joules'), to a lengthy explanation on how magic can be channeled to create energy (complete with a number of intimidating formulas and diagrams), to a section on how one's emotional state affects the nature of the fire conjured.

A part of Albus wanted to skip the section on theory altogether, but a larger part took note of the repeated warnings not to try the spell without full understanding of the theory. The thought of catching his bed on fire and not being able to put it out was as much of a deterrent as Albus needed. Sighing, he nestled himself more comfortably into his covers, and began to read.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 23rd, 2017**

Seven days. The asshole had the nerve to attack again just seven days after the Ministry attack. As if they really needed another excuse to try to fire him. If he had a galleon for every time someone had said "I thought you said the earliest he would attack was in two weeks?!" in the past three days, he'd never have to work again.

He didn't know what was worse – the accusative glares of most Ministry employees, or the sympathetic half-smiles from his fellow aurors. He didn't need their accusations; he felt guilty enough on his own. And he _certainly _didn't need their sympathy.

Ron stalked to his office, and not for the first time cursed the fact that the Head Auror Office was at the end of the hall, past every single other auror office. He kept his eyes resolutely in front of him, and it wasn't long before his door was swinging closed behind him, securing him in blissful isolation.

He sighed and rubbed his temples, taking note of the massive pile of papers on his desk. When he had signed up to be an auror, this wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

Ron sat down, his eyebrows immediately furrowing at the official looking scroll lying prominently in the middle of his desk, on top of all of the other paperwork. _That _certainly hadn't been there when he had left yesterday night. The scroll was sealed with gold wax and embossed with an ornate M.

So it was from the Minister's office. Great. He grabbed it roughly and jerked it open, his eyes quickly scanning its contents.

His jaw actually dropped. The wording was polite, but the content of the letter was unmistakable.

He was fired.

Ron quickly stood up and practically flew out of his office, the scroll clenched tightly in his white-knuckled hand.

They couldn't fire him! Could they? _Why _would they fire him? Surely they didn't think he knowingly gave them the wrong timeframe. How was he supposed to predict the actions of a madman? Who was it that actually gave the order? Was it Kingsley?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Ron stomped to the floo, shoved a handful of powder into the fireplace, and shouted "Minister's Office!"

A second later the floo spat him out into the waiting room, and he wasted no time in bypassing the harried looking secretary who barely managed to eke out "He's in a meeting!" before he swept determinedly into the office.

Four confused faces looked back at him.

Well, shit.

"Ron! To what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Kingsley genially. Ron's brain had caught up with the situation, and it quickly catalogued the faces as belonging Draco Malfoy, Susan Bones, and none other than Aberforth Dumbledore.

He wasn't expecting an audience. An audience meant the story would spread, and he had hoped to keep this private. Well, no matter. Maybe Kingsley would actually give him some answers.

"I was wondering what this was all about, Sir," Ron said curtly, thrusting the scroll into Kingsley's bemused hands.

"Sir, if you'd like, we can come back later…" offered Malfoy.

Fate was not without a sense of irony. Out of the four people in the room, in the old days he would have trusted his life with three of them. Now, it was the fourth, the one who had once been on the opposite side of the battlefield, who offered him a lifeline.

"Oh no, that's not necessary," said Kingsley, all but crushing Ron's renewed hope. "It seems that there has been some sort of mistake. I certainly never gave this order, and something tells me your wife had no hand in it either."

And so hope was restored. "But sir, why does it have the Minister's seal on it?" asked Ron, gesturing to the golden M on the scroll.

"While it is true that the Minister's seal is a golden M, you've forgotten that the Wizengamot's seal," he turned the scroll over, "Is a golden W. This order comes from the Wizengamot."

Draco Malfoy didn't even bother to conceal his snort of amusement.

Once a git, always a git. Still, the Wizengamot? Ron shifted his gaze to Aberforth, along with everyone else in the room.

"Ah, perhaps I can clarify?" offered Aberforth merrily, taking the scroll and looking it over, giving several nods and tsks of agreement. "Yes, this all seems to be in order. What exactly is the problem, Mr. Weasley?"

"The problem," Ron gritted out through clenched teeth, "Is that apparently the Wizengamot saw fit to fire me, without warning, and with no stated reason."

"Fired? What's this all about, Aberforth?" Susan Bones interrogated, her mouth set into a chillingly thin line. "It's highly unusual for the Wizengamot to get involved in Ministry affairs."

"More importantly," sneered Malfoy, "is how the Wizengamot somehow passed a decree without having an official session. I'm sure Ms. Bones would agree, we have not met since the emergency session after the Ministry attack."

"Now now, if everyone would calm down, I'd be happy to explain," Aberforth said cooperatively. "Throughout most of history, the Ministry was controlled by a handful of influential purebloods who gave away positions to their close friends and family members. After Voldemort's first reign, legislation was passed to prevent the appointed positions in the Ministry from being given to people for reasons _other _than merit, so as to prevent the same level of pureblood influence.

"So, in the portion of the Wizengamot's charter that details the powers of the Chief Warlock, a section was added to ensure that these positions remained… uncorrupted. To put it simply, the Chief Warlock has the discretionary power to remove those who were appointed based on a clear and undeniable personal bias. The fact that your wife appointed you and serves as your direct superior represents a rather basic case. I'm sorry Mr. Weasley, but the law is the law."

Ron's ears were ringing. No way. He was being fired, by _Aberforth Dumbledore._

"Are you suggesting," snarled Ron, his voice trembling with poorly restrained anger, "that I did _not _earn my position based on merit? Are you accusing me of _corruption?"_

"I have to agree with Ron, Aberforth," said Kingsley, his normally genial face contorted into one of blatant disagreement. "I fought alongside Mr. Weasley during the war, and there is hardly anyone -"

"Yes, that's precisely my point," interrupted Aberforth, a small smile on his face. "As a former comrade-in-arms, you also have a bias towards Mr. Weasley."

"But Aberforth, you can't seriously mean to fire him," argued Kingsley, looking absolutely fierce in his disapproval. "Your brother would have never -"

"What my brother would have wanted is irrelevant!" Aberforth rumbled, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Your opinion is noted, Kingsley, but I fear you overstep your bounds. I have the power to dismiss any appointed official, unless the Wizengamot decides to overrule my decision with a majority vote."

"Dumbledore, I'm afraid I also cannot understand the grounds for Mr. Weasley's dismissal," opined Susan Bones. "If you go through with this, I will certainly call for a vote of the Wizengamot. And I also have to object to your assessments of Minister Shacklebolt's character."

"Your perspective is duly noted, Ms. Bones, but as a former classmate of Mr. Weasley, as well as a former member of 'Dumbledore's Army,' your professionalism is also in question," said Aberforth blandly.

"You _dare _question my professionalism? I have been the Head of the Department of International Cooperation for seven years, and never have I been anything but impartial!"

Despite what Aberforth might think, Ron wasn't made Head Auror for nothing. He could read between the lines. Dumbledore (he could never get over how weird it felt referring to Aberforth as such) wanted him gone, and he wanted him gone badly enough to make a _very_ unpopular political gambit. The question was _why. _

Whatever the reason was, Ron didn't like it. He felt like an animal set for execution, whose fate was being decided right in front of him. However, he was now immensely glad for his audience. It seemed that Aberforth Dumbledore was not prepared to face the combined ire of two of the most powerful people in Britain. Still, it did not seem like the wizened old man was prepared to budge.

After a few more minutes of bickering, it was once again the fourth person in the room that came to Ron's rescue.

"Chief Warlock Dumbledore," began Draco Malfoy, his tone practically oozing false courtesy, "I'm afraid there has been some misunderstanding. For one so learned in Ministry law, you seem woefully ignorant of the appointee process."

"Ignorant?" said Aberforth amusedly. "I know a great deal about the appointee process."

"I'm sure you do," countered Draco with a wave of dismissal. "However, a man with as many responsibilities as you might have overlooked a few things. The law you are using as justification for this termination applies solely to those officials whose _only _requirement for office is being appointed. It is true that the Head Auror is appointed by the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but there are numerous other requirements for the position."

"Just because there are other requirements does not change the fact that Mr. Weasley was appointed," countered Aberforth.

"In essence, you _would _be correct, except that there are two singularly unique steps to becoming head auror that change the definition from a simple, procedural appointment to a _selective _one. First, all candidates must have worked in the auror office for no fewer than ten years, with an excellent track record, and be nominated by a council of their peers. Traditionally, the auror office nominates five possible candidates for the position. Forgive me in assuming, but Mr. Weasley, you _were _one of the five nominated by your peers, correct?"

Ron nodded in disbelief. A Dumbledore was trying to get him fired, and a Malfoy was trying to keep him hired. The world had truly gone mad.

"I don't know where you're going with this, Mr. Malfoy, but you ought to make your point," said Dumbledore, who for the first time started to look uncertain.

"Of course, Chief Warlock, of course," Malfoy agreed airily. "The fact that the candidates had to first be nominated is enough by itself to discredit your accusation. After all, Hermione Weasley could not have chosen Mr. Weasley for the job if he had not proven his merit to his peers, demonstrated by his nomination and ten years of commitment. It's not like she gave him the job as an anniversary gift."

Susan Bones tried (unsuccessfully) to turn her chuckle into a cough, her face turning a light pink in embarrassment. Dumbledore's face darkened, but it seemed to only add fuel to Malfoy's fire.

"I suppose you could accuse all of the aurors who nominated Mr. Weasley of being unduly biased, much as you accused Susan Bones, Head of the Department of International Cooperation, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic himself," continued Malfoy, his smile growing more gleeful every second. "But I doubt you could find enough people who would support you in this… crusade, against three of the most well-respected members of the magical community to have a majority in the Wizengamot. However, in the off chance that you managed to find just a handful of supporters, there is a second requirement for the Head Auror position that you might not be aware of."

"And what is this requirement?" Aberforth asked suspiciously.

"Once they are nominated, the five candidates for Head Auror must have a Wizengamot sponsor. Now, if Mr. Weasley's sponsor was his wife, or some close friend of his, you might have a head to stand on," Malfoy said.

No way. He was actually going to admit to it. He had done it as a favor, in return for saving his life in the Room of Requirement, with the expectation that it was never brought to light. He couldn't actually be considering telling –

"But the fact is, I was Mr. Weasley's sponsor," Draco concluded, his grin one of pure victory. "And I'm afraid that you'll hardly find a person who dislikes Mr. Weasley more than I do."

It wasn't just Aberforth who looked surprised – everyone in the room was absolutely dumbfounded.

Ron never thought that he'd ever be grateful to a _Malfoy_, but right now he could kiss the sodding git.

"Mr. Malfoy, I was indeed aware of how the sponsoring process works for the Head Auror position. But I must admit, I was ignorantof your participation in Mr. Weasley's," said Dumbledore, recovering from his surprise much more quickly than anyone else. His posture and demeanor were still cordial, but his eyes were absolutely blazing with fury. "If you disliked Mr. Weasley, why did you sponsor him?"

"Because he was the best person for the job," said Malfoy with a careless shrug. "I believe that's called _merit._"

The office was deathly silent for a few moments. Ron hardly dared to believe what had just happened.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy, you've made your point," Aberforth conceded with as much grace as possible. He turned to Ron, finally addressing him. "It seems I might have been a little… hasty… in my dismissal of you, Mr. Weasley. I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused, I was merely trying to do my part to keep this Ministry of ours uncorrupted. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, sir," Ron said quietly. "We must strive to eliminate corruption at all costs, no matter how high it is in the chain of command. _Nobody_ is above the law."

Not exactly the most subtle or most cautious of replies, but he couldn't care less. The slight grimace that flitted across Aberforth's face was worth every second.

"Yes, clearly," Dumbledore concluded. "Well, Mr. Shacklebolt, as much as I'd like to stay and chat, I'm afraid I need to be going. There is, after all, a madman on the loose."

"Get the hell out of my office," Kingsley commanded. "And close the door on your way out."

Aberforth Dumbledore left without another word. When the door swung closed behind him, Kingsley slumped in his chair with an audible sigh.

"Well, now the pieces are on the table, and I can't say I like the look of them. I never would have thought old Abe was capable of something like this. He might have lost this battle, but I hope you lads know what you're doing," he said, looking at Draco and Ron.

"I'm a Malfoy," Draco said indignantly. "I always know what I'm doing."

"I'm just trying to do my job, sir," Ron said wearily.

"That's actually what we were talking about before you came in," informed Susan. "We were discussing possible measures for stopping this lunatic. The French have agreed to lend their support if the arsons start happening outside of Britain, and the Spaniards agreed to help if he attacked anywhere in Spain. Most of the other nations were non-committal."

"And Draco here has agreed to help fund the security measures enacted by the Wizengamot in Diagon Alley, at great personal cost to himself" praised Kingsley.

"Sir, the Malfoy fortune might have been diminished by You-Know-Who, but it now stands larger than ever," Draco said with no small amount of pride. "It's my pleasure to be able to help."

"And it's my pleasure to accept it," Kingsley said appreciatively. "Merlin knows the people won't like it if I have to raise taxes again."

"Now that we just made an enemy out of Dumbledore, I'm not sure if the Wizengamot would even be willing to enact new tax measures," Susan grimaced. "The chamber tends to follow his lead."

"Well, see if you can manage to pry a financial commitment from the French. Remind them of that sphinx debacle we helped them out with back in 2012, that should loosen a few purses," instructed Kingsley. "Now Ron, what's the latest on the case? Have you found out anything from that Cooper lead I gave you four days ago?"

"Not yet sir," Ron admitted. "I was distracted with damage control on the Knockturn Alley attack. Every auror was called in to help mitigate the damage. The only saving grace was that we managed to keep everything but the snakes away from Diagon Alley. Still, seven witches and wizards died, along with two hags and an undetermined number of vampires. The people are afraid, Kingsley."

"Trust me Ron, I don't need you to tell me how afraid the people are, it's splashed across the front page of the Prophet every day," rebuked Kingsley gently. "I know that you've been busy, but I need you to focus all of your attentions on catching this guy. You're the best hope we have."

"I understand, sir. I'll follow up with the lead tomorrow."

"See that you do. Does anybody have anything else to add?" asked Kingsley.

Susan, Draco, and Ron were all silent.

"Well then, I guess that's it for today. We'll meet again in one weeks' time. Hopefully by then, Mr. Weasley will have something for us," dismissed Kingsley.

Right, no pressure.

Ron walked out of the office, his mind still whirling with the unexpected turn of events. Somehow, he went from being fired to… what? Was he in the 'inner circle' now? The thought almost made him laugh out loud, but really, that was the best description for it.

The public might see him as being more brawn than brains, but he knew that wasn't true. His best skill was always his knack for strategy, for seeing things in a way that nobody else could, for understanding why someone made a move before they even thought to make it. It was why he was the Head Auror. The only other person who could ever outthink his enemies better than Ron was Harry, and Harry was dead.

"Hey, Weasley, a word?" requested Malfoy, who was still in the hallway. After what Malfoy had just done for him, Ron figured that he could spare a few moments, at the very least.

"Sure. What do you want?" he asked professionally.

"I want you to know that I didn't stick my neck out for you because I felt like it," he sneered, reverting back to his typical mannerisms in an instant. "My wife and son were in Diagon Alley when the attack happened in Knockturn. Astoria needed to go to St. Mungos after she shielded Scorpius from a snake bite. I need to know that you are doing everything you can to catch this bastard."

So this was personal. It made more sense than Malfoy suddenly developing a conscience.

"Believe it or not, I understand. I'm doing what I can. Now if you don't mind buggering off, I need to go finish up things before I can get started with the Cooper lead," Ron informed him curtly.

"Alright, fair enough," allowed Malfoy. "I'll contact you again next week. I'm sure you're far too thick to realize it, but what just happened with Aberforth was significant, _very _significant. And whether you like it or not, you owe me for it."

He was right, on both counts. He did owe him, and Ron most certainly did not like it.

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Try to take a shower before next week, Weasley. You reek of poverty and lax education."

Ron stomped off, not in the mood to trade juvenile insults with Malfoy. Because the git was right about a third thing – he did have a job to do, and it was about time he started focusing all his attentions on catching the killer.

After all, Hermione, Rose, and Hugo could have just as easily been in Diagon Alley during the attack. It was up to him to catch him before he attacked again.

Because he would almost certainly attack again.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 24th, 2017 - 2am  
**

"Incendio," mouthed Albus, waving his wand in the appropriate circle-jab motion towards the candle in front of him.

His form was as perfect as it was going to get. He had read all night last night and almost all of today, until he was finally confident that he knew everything there was to know about the spell Incendio. He knew what it was, how it worked, why it worked, and how to make it stop working.

Well, at least he hoped he did.

"Incendio," he mouthed again, letting the syllables roll off his tongue. He knew he was being overly meticulous, but he couldn't help it – he _wanted _to cast Incendio on his first try. He had to prove to himself that he could.

He glanced at the clock – it was almost 2am. Staying up all night last night, and the three nights before that, had put him into an advanced stage of exhaustion. But right now his excitement was keeping him wide awake, and he was going to cast Incendio tonight no matter what.

He took a deep breath. It was now or never. He focused on how much he _wanted _it - he visualized the candle wick catching on fire, imagined how it would feel, how it would smell, how it would taste.

"_Incendio,_" he whispered.

The entire candle burst into flames, melting it almost instantly. The fire started to spread to his bed, quickly igniting his blanket before Albus could even blink.

Focus. Will the fire to die down, want it to go away enough, and it will.

Albus focused, and the fire obediently started to putter out until it was just a few licks of flame, and then, nothing.

Albus was panting, but he didn't know whether it was out of fear, surprise, excitement, or exertion. Probably a mixture of all four.

He had done it! The thrill of victory sent a positively wicked smile onto his face, and he thrust his fist into the air in achievement.

I, Albus Severus Potter, have cast Incendio!

He'd like to imagine that even if his mom caught him right now, she'd be so proud of his achievement that she'd reward him instead of punishing him for secretly practicing magic. He could imagine it, watching her look of shock turn into pride as she smiled at him affectionately. And his father! If his father were alive, he'd almost certainly be proud of him. Albus Severus Potter, the most powerful wizard of his generation! How _brave_ he was to cast Incendio outside of school! How courageous!

And he had cast it successfully on his first try!

Albus hopped out of bed and ran as silently as he could around the room, pumping both of his fists into the air. He had done it! He had done it!

After he finished his impromptu victory lap, he was inexorably drawn to the mess at the foot of his bed. A rapidly hardening pile of melted wax sat on top of his blanket, which was still smoking slightly.

Well, he had done it, but perhaps he had done it a little too well. He needed to get rid of the evidence. There were two charms in Appendix III of his charms book that would help - the scouring charm Tergeo, and the repairing spell Reparo. He couldn't do either of them yet, so for now, he would have to hide his blanket in his closet and grab another one out of the cupboard. His mom might notice that he was using a different blanket, but if she asked, he would just say that he was eleven years old and entitled to change his bed coverings if he wanted. If she happened to find the blanket in the closet, he would just say that he knocked over a candle one night while he was reading and hid it because he didn't want her to be angry.

It was a flimsier plan than he was used to, but it was the best he could come up with. There was some risk of getting caught, but being able to cast Incendio was worth it.

Speaking of which… Feeling daring, Albus fetched another candle from his closet, taking care to shove his blanket into the deepest, most unobtrusive corner he could find.

Albus once again set the candle on his bed, amazed at his own recklessness. Still, he knew now that casting Incendio wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be, and so he knew not to put as much emotion into the spell as he did before.

This time, he only devoted a few moments to focusing and visualizing before whispering, "_Incendio_."

The candle wick lit up, gleaming playfully in the shadowy room. Albus willed the fire to go out, and it did. Instantly.

"_Incendio_," he whispered again.

Once again it lit up, and once again, it was extinguished. Albus almost couldn't believe how easy it was. He had spent all day learning formulas and theory for _this? _This was simple!

"Incendio," he said again, almost giggling. The candle lit up, and once again went out.

Albus laughed, and then clamped his hand over his mouth. In his excitement, he hadn't realized how loud he was being. He froze, completely silent, his ears straining to catch any sort of noise coming from outside of his door. After a few minutes of not hearing anything, Albus allowed himself to relax.

As his shoulders slumped, a wave of suppressed exhausted washed through him. It was already 2:30 am. Upon realizing this, Albus gave a massive involuntary yawn that almost dislocated his jaw. After four days without sleep, his body was making the decision for him.

He placed the candle and his wand by his bedside and nestled underneath the covers.

The eleven year old was asleep within seconds.

* * *

_**o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o~O~o**_

* * *

**August 24th, 2017**

Ron scowled at the perfectly manicured lawn of Number 4 Privet Drive. The mailbox was embossed with the name 'Dursley' in gaudy brass letters, and a shiny new silver car was sitting in the driveway.

Ron knew that he probably looked as out of place as he felt. Coming here was a shot in the dark, a Hail Mary as it were, but the Dursleys were the only magic-aware contacts Ron personally knew in Surrey, the last known residence of the Coopers. Of course the Ministry had other contacts, but he preferred to work with people he knew. It made it easier to tell when they were lying.

But standing on the curb wasn't doing any good for anybody.

As Ron walked up the driveway, he wasn't exactly worried about not being able to handle the Dursleys. He was more worried about letting his temper get the better of him and cursing them to a well-deserved oblivion.

No, no cursing. He would stay calm, cool, collected…

Ron let out a breath and rang the doorbell. In a few seconds the door was answered by a graying, wrinkled woman in a pink sundress. Ron was shocked when he realized she was Petunia Dursley. He had forgotten how quickly muggles aged.

She took one look at him and made to close the door. He reacted, and immediately slid his foot between the doorjamb to prevent the door from closing.

"Not again, I tell you! I won't have it!" she shrieked, her proximity causing Ron's ears to ring uncomfortably.

"Look, I only need to ask you a few questions and then I'll be on my way," said Ron, wincing as she pushed the door repeatedly against his foot.

"No! I don't have anything to say! I won't let you near my family!" she said, bringing her voice down to a hiss when she realized that the woman from Number 3 was glancing in their direction.

Ron knew an advantage when he saw one. "You don't want me to make a scene, do you? Because I will. I'll call dozens of other witches and wizards, and they'll come dressed even worse than I am. And we'll make sure that the entire neighborhood knows _exactly _who we came here to see."

She shot him a look of pure loathing that he happily returned. Finally, she thrust open the door with evident disgust, and muttered, "Fine, but get in! Quickly!"

Ron limped through the foot door, his foot still throbbing. That woman was stronger than she looked!

She led him wordlessly through her home and into the living room. Ron wondered if he could even really call this place a 'home.' Everything was immaculately clean, almost sterile, and he was almost afraid to touch anything for fear of breaking it. He couldn't imagine growing up here.

Petunia sat down on a couch and gestured for him to sit down as well. "Go on, ask your questions. Vernon's at work right now, and I won't have this nonsense go on any longer than it has to."

Ron sat down, pleased that she was at least minimally cooperating. "As I said, I only have a few questions. Do you by any chance know of a family called the Coopers that lived in Surrey four years ago?"

"The Coopers? Of course I know of them, everyone knows of them!" Petunia exclaimed. "They died, didn't they? Their house burnt down, killing them both. It was all anybody talked about for months! _Your kind_ didn't have anything to do with the fire, did they?"

"Yes, the fire was magical in nature," Ron admitted. He didn't particularly care for her anti-magical attitude, but supposed that in this case, it was somewhat warranted.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised! You freaks are always meddling in other people's business, ruining perfectly normal lives with your freakishness!" she ranted. "They were two of the most average people you could hope for, although the one did have a few too many cats for my tastes. Nasty animals, leaving hair and dirt everywhere…"

"Wait, did you personally know the Coopers?" Ron interrupted urgently.

"Of course I did! It's why everyone came to me to know the latest news," she said, a note of pride in her voice. Ron felt vaguely nauseous. How anybody could gossip about death was beyond him. "I only knew the woman, Arabella. She used to live in Little Whinging before she remarried. I'll admit, it was a little bit of a scandal when she got remarried at her age, but he was a nice respectable man, Oswald Cooper. Even owned the local pet shop."

"Wait, Arabella? As in Arabella Figg?" asked Ron incredulously.

"That's the one! She was always doing us favors, even agreed to watch Harry a few times when we went on vacation," Petunia prattled happily. She seemed to have forgotten to be nasty to Ron in her interest at reliving old gossip.

"Let me get this straight," Ron said, amazed at his good luck. "Arabella Figg, the woman who used to babysit Harry, remarried a man named Oswald Cooper, becoming Arabella Cooper?"

What he didn't mention was that he also knew Arabella Figg. She had been a member of the Order, and was the main person in charge of keeping an eye on Harry during his summer holidays.

"Yes, that's exactly right," Petunia confirmed. "I can't believe you didn't know any of this already, it was the talk of the town for ages! If it was one of _your kind _who killed her, why are you just now looking into it four years later? Do you know who killed them?"

She had more of a point than she realized. How is it that nobody, not a single Order member, had thought to check in with Arabella? How is it that _nobody _knew that she had died?

"No, we don't know who killed them yet, that's what I'm trying to find out. Whoever did it has been burning down buildings all over wizarding Britain, which is why we're finally looking into it," Ron said, indulging in her love of gossip. "Tell me, did you by any chance see anything suspicious the day it happened?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I _did _see something odd that day," Petunia said with a look of consternation. "You see, I was outside weeding the garden, when I could have _sworn _I saw a glimpse of Harry Potter. Of course, the second I turned to get a better look, he was gone, as if he had never existed. I put it out of my mind and blamed it on the heat playing tricks with me. That night the news broke about the Coopers, and so I had almost forgotten about it."

"You saw Harry Potter?" Ron questioned, his mouth going dry with the implications.

"Yes, his face was unmistakable. Why? Oh my goodness… you don't think _he _killed the Coopers, do you?" she asked, her eyes shining with interest. Ron supposed that she hadn't gotten gossip this good for a while if she was interested in the affairs of wizards.

"No, it's not possible. Didn't you know? He died eleven years ago," Ron said. Was she truly so estranged from her nephew that she didn't even know whether he was alive or dead? He tried to imagine what it would be like living with a family like that, and found that he didn't even want to think about it.

"Dead? Truly?" she gasped. Ron wondered if this was something akin to _affection_ for her nephew, or whether she was genuinely just surprised. "How did he die?"

Ron had half a mind to tell her that she should have asked that eleven years ago, but held his tongue. As a direct family member, Petunia had the legal right to know the circumstances of her nephew's death.

"It was a murder-suicide. He burned his house down eleven years ago, with himself and his son still inside," he said briefly. Talking about it was like taking a potion – the quicker he drank it, the quicker the foul taste faded away.

"No," Petunia said instantly, "I don't believe it. Harry and I might have never gotten along, but I knew him well enough to know that he'd never do something like that. It… it can't be true. I never even knew that he had a son…"

"He actually had two sons. One is still alive, and is living with his mother, who happens to be my sister. So I guess he's a nephew to both of us," Ron said with a small smile. "He's set to attend Hogwarts in the fall."

"So he's one of _your kind,_" she said bitterly. Still, despite her tone, Ron could see that her eyes were actually shiny. "What… what's his name?"

"Albus Severus Potter," Ron informed her.

"Nasty, freakish name… I don't know why I expected anything different," she said mulishly.

"Yes, well, now you know," Ron said crisply. He'd never understand how this woman could let her hatred of magic ruin her relationships with her family members. "Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs. Dursley. That's all I needed to know, so I'll be going now. " He stood up from the couch, and Petunia stood reflexively along with him.

"Really?" Petunia asked skeptically. "That's it? No freakish accidents? No waving your… thing?"

"Really, that's it. Normally I'd Obliviate you, but well, we're practically related. The specifics of Harry's death are confidential, but feel free to let your family know about Albus."

Ron started walking towards the front door, and once again, Petunia followed him.

"I still don't believe it," she said stubbornly. "About Harry's death, I mean."

"In all honesty, ma'am, I don't believe it either. It's one of the things I'm trying to prove," he said with conviction.

As Ron stepped in front of the door and reached out to open it, a thought popped into his mind. He sighed, realizing that now that he'd thought of it, he'd have to follow through with it or else he'd feel guilty. Cursing his good conscience, he reached into one of his pockets, rummaged around a bit, and finally landed on a business card. He pulled it out and handed it to Petunia Dursley. "Here, this card has my home address on it, the muggle one. If you ever need any help, or if you ever remember anything new about the Cooper incident, just send a letter to the address and put it in the post."

Petunia accepted the card cautiously, looking at it as one might look at a particularly vicious viper.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Ron knew that there was nothing left for him to do here. He wordlessly grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. He strode out of the house, marveling at the absolute flatness of every single lawn on Privet Drive. Honestly, didn't these people know that lawns were supposed to have plants?

As soon as he left the front porch, he heard the door slam behind him. Petunia Dursley was as unpleasant as ever, but he had to acknowledge that it could have gone a lot worse. At least the fat one wasn't there.

More importantly, Ron had learned something critical. The killer _was _masquerading as Harry Potter; it wasn't just a theory anymore. Moreover, the killer must have had a very personal connection with Harry if he knew about Harry's muggle relatives _and _Arabella. There were simply too many coincidences.

Coincidences on top of coincidences. Even in death, everything seemed to revolve around Harry Potter.

A loud CRACK echoed through Privet Drive as Ron apparated back to the Ministry.

He had a killer to catch, a killer that was wearing Harry Potter's face.

* * *

**A/N Ahhh another chapter! Next chapter will mark the start of yet another plot line. If you're confused, no worries! Everything will be explained...eventually.  
**


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